Beyond Help: Absolution
by NikaKrae
Summary: The third and also final story about Samael Hawke and Dalish Keeper Merrill.
1. Chapter 1

Samael spent a day alone, wandering through Kirkwall outskirts aimlessly. He did that a lot lately. His faithful mabari Charon and silver stallion Occela were with him as usual, but they weren't bothering him since they weren't capable of actually talking to him which was what mattered most to Hawke in those days. Charon was the champion in staring at Hawke, following him everywhere he went, whereas Occela was the title-holder in ignoring Samael and, well, everybody else as well. Before Hawke knew it, he fell in love with that proud creature who reminded him of the Hero of Fereldan and their months spent together.

The Hawke estate was damaged heavily during the Qunari invasion, but it had been fully repaired and was even more splendid and sumptuous than before. Samael hated it. When he returned there after two weeks spent at the Hanged Man, he almost couldn't force himself to enter. The architect responsible for the reconstruction was bouncing around him in excitement, describing lengthily every single new piece of furniture or decoration and he seemed completely oblivious to Hawke's glum face and deepening wrinkle between his eyebrows. He ended up telling him to shut up, take the unbelievably heavy pouch of gold, and get out.

And thus with the coming spring Hawke found himself more and more comfortable outside and alone than at his beautiful home, surrounded by beautiful things and his companions who once again had reasons to worry about their taciturn leader. Not that they would be bored without him! Anders had to endure several Templar raids through Darktown while he continued in his desperate fight to help all mages throughout Thedas. Even Justice had to admit now that their cause was nearly lost and their doing would probably cost Anders the highest price. But the blonde mage kept going day after day: stubborn, unflagging and convinced he was doing the right thing.

Varric kept living at his new spacious room at the Hanged Man and nothing seemed to be bothering him at all, although he had many disturbing thoughts in his mind lately. Fenris seemed to be content as long as he had coin in his pocket and Hawke by his side. Aveline was flying on a pink cloud in those days because of Donnic and a vision of their life together. Nobody had heard about Isabela ever since Hawke traded her freedom for Mother Petrice, but she remained in Samael's head no matter what. As far as Hawke knew, Fawn Mahariel had successfully reached Fereldan, seeking the enigmatic old man Avernus to give him the Tome of Koslun in return for the secrets hidden in Wardens' blood and the darkspawn taint.

**Merrill**. The name pursuing Samael during prolonging days, haunting him during his sleepless nights. He forbade himself from even thinking about her, not alone seeing her, but anyone who once tried to do this knows that it's impossible to command the mind this way. Merrill was simply always present in Hawke's head, although he ceased wearing the black ring. Until now Samael remained outwardly oddly calm, knowing Merrill was still near him, still living among her own people at Sundermount. He nursed this single thought and he was clinging to it desperately. But what if he wouldn't find the clan there one day? What then? Oh yes, Samael was frequently visiting Sundermount, unseen, prowling the night shadows, watching, guarding, despairing. Every evening he promised himself that he would stay home and almost every evening he mounted Occela and rode through the night. Every time he cursed himself for this weakness and with each new curse, he heeled the stallion to run even faster. And as if the Maker Himself wanted to steal even this tiny piece of certainty from Hawke – a rumor emerged at the Kirkwall market that the Dalish had started making preparations to leave their camp, cross the sea and return back to Fereldan – the Blight was over after all. This innocent rumor stole the sleep from Hawke for good.

Samael woke up from his day dreaming and found himself sitting on the massive twisted roots. The old huge willow stood near the meandering dusty road, guarding it with its long dead branches waving above it. Charon was snoring right beside his master, lying snugly in the high dried grass, while Occela was nowhere to be seen, until Hawke whistled and listened carefully for a while. Finally the wind carried to his ears a distant neigh and it didn't take long until the exquisite horse made his way through the bushes on Hawke's left, jumping gracefully on the road.

"There you are…" Samael's hoarse voice trailed off as he made his way towards the beautiful beast. "Where you've been, hm? You roamer." Hawke patted the horse and realized he was a bit scared of the sound of his own voice, knowing neither Charon nor Occela would respond to him. The horse nudged Hawke and whickered.

"Yeah, I know it's Friday," Samael sighed and turned his head left, gazing through the darkening forest at distant Kirkwall. Another whicker; louder this time.

"Yeah, I know it's the Wicked Grace night back at my place," Hawke replied at Occela's reprimand. "All right, let's go," Hawke jumped up easily into the saddle, "but we have yet another visit right now, my friends." Samael loosened the reins and let the stallion to walk slowly back to Kirkwall. The silhouette of a man riding the horse and a hound scurrying around them vanished into twilight.

oOo

Kirkwall's cemetery was a rather peculiar place. Grave stones of various prices, sizes and materials organized into rows. Strait corridors that ran between the graves were becoming overgrown with spring grass and only a few twinkling candles on couple of graves let the dead know that some of them were still loved and remembered. There was a huge pompous sepulcher standing in the middle of the graveyard, made of black stone and surrounded by young willow trees. A shadow slipped by this showy well-maintained building, glancing up at the golden inscription _Dumar family_, then the shadow sneered and kept walking, until it reached a small tomb made of glazed sandstone and covered with dark green ivy.

Samael took a deep breath before he drew apart an ivy baldaquin and placed his hand on the old iron door knob while his other hand slowly inserted the key into the keyhole. A brief silence followed, ended by the groaning of the old lock which was unused for a long time.

The door creaked and opened. The small room beyond the door yawned at Samael with its frowsty breath, making him to stagger a step back. The mabari whined softly and sat down by the entrance while Occela simply stood in the narrow corridor, looking as bored as ever. Samael himself looked a bit like an elephant in porcelain among the tombstones. Before he entered, Samael's eyes flew over the simple black writing above the door; _Amell & Hawke family_. He couldn't even remember when the last time he had been there was, but he figured it would be Bethany's funeral which took place years ago.

"Good evening," Samael intended to whisper to his dead kin, but the words simply got stuck in his throat. The assassin strolled slowly to the centre of the room; his eyes roved around it. There were seven unadorned onyx catafalques with plain silver names written on each one of them; the names which seemed to be burning even through the darkness.

"Sister…" Hawke's voice rasped into the silence while his hand swept away a dead bouquet of roses placed on the top of Bethany's resting place. The dried fragile bouquet rustled and fell into dust as it hit the cold stone floor.

"Brother…" Samael's eyes then wandered towards another fading name. Carver's sword was still laid on the catafalque; just like the day Hawke had put it there, knowing his brother's coffin was empty. They couldn't delay and carry Carver's body which was ripped apart by an ogre anyway, when there was a darkspawn horde at their back. So they left him behind – just like Lothering, just like their home there. Samael was genuinely surprised that those memories hurt still the same way even after the years spent in Kirkwall.

Two catafalques were pushed together and the ivy was growing across them as it found its way in through the crack in the wall. Hawke brushed it away, so the names would be visible again, but he wished he wouldn't do that a second later. _Leandra & Malcolm Hawke_. Samael groaned and closed the eyes, unable to look at those he failed.

Mother, Carver and Bethany, father, some of the elder Amells Samael didn't even know. All of them whispering around him, chortling, hissing in the darkness, making Hawke to collapse slowly down along the graves of his parents.

"Samael?" a panicked voice slit the deafening silence. Nothing could have prepared Ichabod Bane for this very moment; the moment when he was forced to stand in front of his own coffin; an empty coffin his son was pressing himself at right now, motionless. Ichabod waited impatiently for Hawke to say something, anything, but he remained silent and still. "Your friends, Messere Hawke," Ichabod coughed in uneasiness. "They sent me to —"

"If I had a tumor, Ichabod, I'd name it after you." Samael interrupted the old man rudely, shooting at him a nasty grimace.

"I don't understand." Bane conceded and looked down, when he wasn't able to bear his son's scorching glare anymore.

"Oh, I think you understand all too well, Master Bane." Samael jumped up and marched to the awkwardly fidgeting older man. "You've been spying on me ever since you came to my mansion, isn't that correct?" Hawke folded his arms on chest rather then punching this strange man. "I've seen you, Bane. Watching me, creeping around, listening in and meddling into my business for weeks!"

"No." Ichabod's simple denial seemed to be infuriating Hawke even more.

"No?" Samael mocked mercilessly his own father. "I… don't… trust you." He stopped right in front of Bane who froze on the spot.

Having his only son this close and not able to tell him the truth – Ichabod thought he'd go insane any second if he wasn't already. Varric was wrong when he thought Hawke would swoop down upon Ichabod the day he moved in, that he would question him for hours, then kill him or at least throw him out. Actually, Samael was avoiding the man in panic, desperately trying to shut down that odd feeling he had in his stomach every time he saw him. Yes – Ichabod Bane was definitely another reason for Hawke to stay away from his own home, yet he couldn't force himself to kick Bane's ass out.

But Ichabod didn't seem to give up his efforts to get to Hawke. He was literally following him like a second shadow every time Hawke was home and he wished to understand him and his business. When Varric nonchalantly suggested Ichabod to find Hawke an hour ago, he went happily outside and somehow he knew perfectly where his son would be and why. Because Samael decided to do something unthinkable for him that day; something he hadn't done for years – visiting the family tomb at the cemetery. His visit wasn't unnoticed though since Ichabod dared standing right in front of Hawke, looking at him with those creepy white eyes and a mute question on his lips.

"Your friends are waiting for you, Messere Hawke." Ichabod spoke again, insisting quietly on his version. He glanced unwillingly at his own headstone one more time and then he was gone.

"Damn it!" Samael punched the cold stone wall, peered outside and considered the possibility to run after Bane and apologize. But why? And for what exactly? It was pure truth after all – Bane had been definitely stalking him ever since he moved in. And Samael avoided him most of the time. Actually, they were circling around each other, but Samael wouldn't have admitted it.

"For the Maker's sake, Occela, chew at least on another grave, you oversized yob!" Samael couldn't help himself and yelled at the stallion, who had started nibbling on the ivy overgrowing the walls of _Amell & Hawke_ tomb. The stallion granted Hawke a haughty grin and his greedy muzzle reached for yet another load of juicy ivy while Charon kept wallowing it the freshly dug up dirt right next to a grave prepared for a funeral. Samael counted to ten rather than killing those two blasphemous beasts and turned around to leave the cemetery. He had the Wicked Grace night in front of him after all. Joy of joys…

oOo

"So, Hawke, where have you been today, hm?" Varric threw in a relaxed question and he made sure it would sound unobtrusive, like he wasn't questioning their leader about what he did that day. And the day before. And those days before, too.

"Before now I wasn't aware I owe you to explain myself and describe everything I do, dwarf." Samael didn't even look up from his hand full of cards, but his eyes flashed briefly in disapproval, because he knew well they've been talking about him behind his back – as always. If he did look up, he would easily see that Aveline was about to interrogate him, since she glanced at her cards, realized she had next to nothing there and tossed them on the mahogany table.

"Is it true, Samael?" The inquisition had begun. The Guards Captain frowned when Hawke glanced at her with innocent smile and raised eyebrows. "Have you sent a courier to Fereldan to look around for a suitable estate for you or not?" She shot a direct question at him, leaving everybody else in awe.

"Damn it, Aveline!" Hawke hissed at her and smacked his own cards on the table. "How do you know about it?" Aveline ignored his outraged face and she was now contemplating this indirect confirmation of Hawke's departure.

"Is it true?" Fenris turned to Hawke and he didn't even try to hide his shock. The same question was on Anders' lips as he stopped eating assiduously his third plate of grilled fish. Varric simply stared at Hawke and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Judging by his not-so-much-excited expression he had been anticipating this twist for some time now.

"I've started making preparations weeks ago." Defeated by their silence, Hawke finally grunted this simple statement. When he saw it would take more than that to satiate their curiosity, he took a deep breath and tried to grin, but he failed. "I always wanted to go back, my friends. You all know that. I decided to sell my lyrium contracts to the Coterie, I haven't decided yet if I keep this estate in Hightown or not, but I will return back to Fereldan in a month if things go right."

The fragile silence that followed was ripped apart when a porcelain tea cup fell off the saucer Ichabod was holding in his callous hands. He heard only a fragment of what his son had been saying, but it was enough. He finally had a chance to get back to his son, to get to know him again, then reveal him who he really was, but this…? This would ruin everything! Samael would slip away, leaving Bane behind him no doubt. Malcolm's hands started shaking uncontrollably and he opened his mouth to react, to tell Samael he wasn't allowed to leave him that way, how difficult it was so far to sneak into his life again, to watch over him, to —

"Ichabod, you old blunderbuss…" Varric jumped up off his seat frantically and almost ran to Malcolm who still stood there, dumbfounded. "Excuse us… I… Heh-heh… We're gonna… Over there." The dwarf rambled in front of the aghast companions and pushed Bane upstairs where was nothing but more bookshelves and several armchairs.

"What was _that_?" Anders asked no one particular and nobody had a meaningful answer for him. Aveline on the other hand kept focusing on the fidgeting Hawke who nursed a tiny hope they would consider the debate about him leaving Kirkwall as closed.

"When exactly did you want to tell us?" Aveline folded her arms on chest and her armor creaked when she clearly clenched the fingers into fists.

"Well…" Samael scratched his head.

"The way I know him, he would wave a white handkerchief at us from his ship…" Fenris gulped down his wine bitterly.

"I…" Samael raised his palms to defend himself.

"Is there any possibility it is somehow connected to the Dalish clan which is allegedly packing and intending to leave?" Aveline continued mercilessly her inquisition, but she had made a pivotal mistake here in mentioning Merrill.

"No, Aveline," Hawke's amber eyes flared as he twitched and turned to her. Those two growled words should tell her to stop talking unless it had something to do with the cards, the quality of whiskey or if there was any sand in the oysters. "For the last time it seems I need to remind you I'm over Merrill and —"

"Messere Hawke," Bodahn walked inside the library and closed the door behind him carefully, "a visitor is asking for an audition. Shall I take the guest inside or do you not want to be bothered at this late hour?" Bodahn asked and glanced meaningfully at the giant longcase clock – it was a few minutes before the midnight.

"Who is it? I think it won't hurt to talk to him for a few minutes… To see what he wants… And stuff like that…" Samael took this opportunity to flee the library and thus avoid the questioning.

"Her." Bodahn corrected politely his Master.

"What?" Samael's hand froze on the door knob.

"Talking to her, Messere Hawke. It's the Dalish Keeper waiting for you in the hall." Bodahn made sure his voice would sound normal, but he couldn't help himself and he sounded cautious instead. For Samael the time stopped and he found himself unable to decide if he wanted to see her or not.

"Yeah, now we all can see how _over_ you really are over our lovely Keeper, Hawke." Varric hadn't come back yet, but his mocking voice coming from above them woke Samael up at least.

"What does she want?" he asked Bodahn quietly.

"She says she needs help, Messere," the dwarf replied in a low voice, waiting for a command.

"Help…" Hawke repeated just for himself and his face darkened. "Right," he rubbed his tired face with both palms. He didn't even look back at his waiting friends when he opened the door vigorously and headed for his quarters. Bodahn's turned his surprised face to the companions who just shrugged and went slowly back to their card game.

"I think it meant _no_, Bodahn…" Anders uttered after a moment when the dwarf remained on his spot, looking in turns at the door leading to Merrill and the door leading to his Master's bedroom.

"Yep - he's definitely over her. Like hell he is…" Varric mumbled under his nose as he strolled down the stairs, carrying four plump dusty bottles of pink wine from Orlais.

oOo

"The names are Émile De Louncet, Evelyna and Huon. I need thorough information about each one of them, Elsa. And send the Knight–Lieutenant to my office on your way out." Meredith was slowly pacing around her office while the young Tranquil woman listened to her and made notes. The Knight–Commander wanted to add something when a distant noise reached their ears. While Elsa barely looked up from her notes, Meredith froze on the spot and her hand found the sword hilt.

"You can't go in there without a proper invi… aaaah…" A Templar's passionate reprimand turned into agonizing groan. The door to Meredith's office was kicked open at the same time and Samael Hawke marched inside. There was a pure murder in his eyes, yet there was no blood on his long massive sword. Meredith sneered almost imperceptibly and waved the Tranquil woman away. She stood up obediently and tried to close the broken door as much as she could. Meredith had been trying for weeks to lure the Champion into her office, but he had been resisting – not answering her notes, not bothering to listen to the couriers she sent, nor consenting to meet her at some place outside the Gallows. Until now. Meredith nearly rubbed her hands and she was clearly unconcerned although there was a very angry assassin in her office right now.

"How dare you…!" Samael's nostrils widened as he was breathing heavily; his arm still clutching the sword.

"And how dare you, Champion?" Meredith replied with a question, sat down comfortably and gestured towards the chair opposite to her.

"I didn't come here to exchange pleasantries, Meredith!" With one aggressive move, Samael thrust the sword into the massive expensive maple table, piercing Meredith's papers through. "How dare you send your men to raid my warehouse right after the lyrium shipment had arrived! You…" Samael would like to continue and blow away some steam, but Meredith was a tough nut.

"I feel obligated to inform you the lyrium trade was prohibited by the Chantry almost forty years ago, Champion, and there's no reason to —"

"Fucking bullshit, Meredith!" Hawke roared in anger. "The lyrium trade at this stinking city was tolerated for decades. It was all happening with the silent consent of the Templars because they are the major group craving the stuff! So don't sit there and preach to me this rubbish!" Hawke finally seemed to calm down a bit and he was indeed confused by Meredith's light smile on her face, although that smile was freezing his bones.

"I figured I had to do much better than sending you a polite message to come to my office, Champion." Samael couldn't decide what bugged him more – the astringent words coming out of Meredith's mouth or the fact she insisted on using the title Samael hated.

"I thought I told you not to address me with that… with that… _word_." Hawke hissed when he found his voice again. The memories of Arishok flooded his mind immediately. The fact he had received that title because of his friend's death was torturing.

"Still hiding from your duties, avoiding any responsibilities, I see." Meredith's cold eyes pierced Hawke through and he had suddenly a feeling she knew everything about him. Why he couldn't sleep, why he barely ate, where he had been going every night and why. He fell into the chair wordlessly and he was unable to look into those icicle eyes for a moment.

"What do you want from me?" he asked finally; his voice hoarse, his gaze distant.

"Support, Champion," she replied immediately and steepled her long pale fingers in front of her.

"Go on." Samael rasped and watched her.

"Orsino is plotting against me and has been for years, Hawke. It's a public secret he wants me to step down and disappear from Kirkwall for good." Meredith's face darkened as she talked and Hawke raised an eyebrow at that change.

"But, of course, you have no intentions of stepping down before you two tear Kirkwall apart, am I right?" Hawke realized he was the one on the top right now, so he wanted to use this fact. "Or let the nobility to vote for a new Viscount, right? You've been happily blocking every effort to replace Dumar after all."

"All I've done was to protect Kirkwall! All I've ever done was to keep order until there's a ruler capable of succeeding where Dumar failed, Champion!" A few feverish red spots appeared on Meredith's otherwise pale face as her voice was growing stronger. "What do you suggest then, hm, Champion? Should I remain calm when there's a mage provoking an uprising?"

"Well, you're not making it better with your midnight raids, mass arrests, and herding the mages into these walls like cattle!" Hawke placed his palms on the table, leaning forward, and his eyes were burning in disapproval. To his surprise, Meredith calmed down instead of blowing up.

"You're awfully well-informed for someone who is no mage and has no living mage kin." She mocked openly Hawke's loss of his sister and father. "You must know I've been watching closely your mage-friend, that Warden in Darktown, as well as that little ridiculous elf at Sundermount who calls herself the Keeper." She leaned backwards in her armchair and her crafty sneer told Hawke to choose his next words carefully.

"I don't think there's a point in pretending I have no idea what you're talking about…" Hawke replied finally and glanced behind him nervously. "What do you propose?" he asked simply.

"An alliance, Champion. Our union would benefit us both." Meredith's eyes flashed with victory when she thought she broke Hawke so easily.

"I seriously doubt that, but do continue." Samael uttered nonchalantly.

"Work for me. I'll pass anything which is not in my Templars' jurisdiction to you, you do your job, I'll pay you, I'll overlook your many transgressions of law just like your dear Guards-Captain does, and your lyrium business will go on without any incursions. Is that good enough, Champion?" Meredith had no doubts Hawke would accept her proposal for she considered herself smart and a great negotiator. Her stubborn usage of the title Champion should only confirm her superiority over Hawke.

"Work for you…" Hawke cackled softly and shook his head. "You mean do your dirty job, don't question you and keep a low profile, right?" he grinned at her and Meredith didn't know for a moment if Hawke was pleased by this offer or if he was mocking her. "Never," he confirmed the second option a second later.

"Do think twice about it before you doom yourself and those you like." Meredith's confident sneer vanished as she slowly stood up. "Or even love." She walked behind Hawke's back and leaned down a bit. There was a pure threat in her voice right now and Samael knew it. Would she hurt his friends? His companions? Would she dare approach even the Dalish Keeper? The disturbing thoughts were whirling through his mind, but his pride woke up in the meantime. Why he should care for Anders anyway? He chose his way years ago and he must have known where this path would eventually lead him. Yes, Hawke knew by now Anders was up to something, but he didn't care as long as it wouldn't hurt him, his business or his friends. And Merrill… Merrill dared coming to him last night to beg for help. Not to see him, not to simply talk to him, not to spent time with him. Help against what? Samael didn't know. He tried to convince himself he didn't even care.

Hawke slowly rose up from his seat and turned to the waiting Meredith.

"I'm leaving Kirkwall in a month, Knight-Commander. Nothing will stop me – not even you. Do what you will, but do not drag me into your mess. I think I'm done here." Samael waited a few seconds for Meredith to say something and when she remained silent, he took his sword and headed for the door.

"Sad. I thought you're smarter than that, Champion." Meredith's strident voice slit the uncomfortable silence when Hawke's hand clenched the door knob.

"I think I could say the very same thing about yourself right now, Knight-Commander." Hawke replied quietly without turning back to her. Oh – Hawke really should have thought twice about his attitude towards the Templars and their agenda. Because if Meredith ever loved anything in the world, it was challenge. And one fresh, untamed challenge just walked away from her office.


	2. Chapter 2

Leandra Amell had always considered herself a smart and ambitious woman, a woman who knows what she wanted. She had been twelve year old when her father hired a governess from Orlais who was supposed to teach Leandra good manners and continue in educating her when the Chantry had taught her everything a good Andrastian should know. But Madame Leticia did much more than that. She trained the young Amell in powers of femme fatale; how to seize the attention of wealthy and influential men, how to make them beg for a single glance from her, how to make them fall to their knees with one brief wink of her eye. Leandra never pretended she wasn't interested in the life of a noble woman in Kirkwall. A grandiose estate, a respected and rich husband, opulent soirées, beautiful dresses and jewelry and later even children – those were the things Leandra Amell was interested in the most. Her dreams were coming true soon enough since Leandra finally nodded to one of the many proposals she received, of course, after she had discussed the whole matter with Madame Leticia and she had approved of the carefully chosen man. He was the Comte Gaston de LaGenuy; not very bright, but kind and high-minded lad whose family was marvelously rich and well-respected.

Leandra Amell was twenty year old when the wedding date had been set and the best Kirkwall tailor was about to sew the most beautiful wedding dress Kirkwall had ever seen. Leandra was properly proud of herself, Madame Leticia stood vigilantly in the shadows like a grey eminence and nothing seemed to be bothering the Amells in those early summer days. Until Leandra met… _him_.

She was at the tailor's that day along with her governess, taking one final look at her wedding dress and then she was supposed to deliver a package to her mother's friend working at the shop at the Gallows courtyard. Leticia stopped to chat with friends of hers standing by the gate, so Leandra skittered across the courtyard when some lout with a bowed head bumped right into her. She gasped in surprise, her package slipped out of her hands and Leandra staggered a step back. The head of the stranger slowly rose, obscured by the veil of thick long black hair and the two of them stared at each other for a moment. Narrowed amber eyes were reaching into the widened grey ones. The man's face wasn't the prettiest Leandra had ever seen; not at all. It was chiseled into a bit hard-bitten curves, the chin was strong and square, with a dimple in the middle of it, and the aquiline nose looked rather peculiar, yet she found herself genuinely interested in him and her quickened heartbeat confirmed that disturbing thought as well.

"My apologies, Miss," the man finally broke the fragile silence although he didn't seem nervous under Leandra's wordless scrutiny. The young woman just gulped when he made a decisive step towards her, reaching his hand holding the package to her.

"Hands off, apostate!" Madame Leticia would love to slap herself for not supervising her dear girl for a moment as she hastily crossed the courtyard and stepped between them resolutely. The amber eyes flared in outrage and the man slowly turned to the elder woman who somehow shrank back like the fire within his eyes had burned her.

"Please, say that again," the man sneered down at the elegant governess and his right hand started emanating a dull bluish light, "so I could wipe that condescending smirk off your face." The mage raised his hand and the blue light within his palm became dazzling.

"Malcolm!" A high, magisterial voice sounded like a whip lash as the tall Templar rushed to them from a distant corner.

"Ser Carver." The young mage jerked, glanced at the Templar, but he obviously wasn't willing to let this go.

"Put that away, Malcolm. _Now_." Ser Maurevar Carver would have never admitted it, but he was quite fond of the young bright mage he was admonishing right now.

"As you wish. _Templar_." Malcolm granted the petrified woman in front of him one last annihilating glare, then his palm slowly closed into a fist and the light died away. "Have a pleasant day filled with shallow gossip and boring embroidery in Hightown, ladies." Malcolm's eyes went back to the young Amell woman and slid along her whole body shamelessly this time. It was enough to make Leandra's heart racing again. Malcolm then derisively dropped the package down on the white flagstones again and made his way through the small crowd of nosy onlookers.

"Get lost, you… you," Madame Leticia blurted out, but she did make a cautious step towards the Templar.

"I'm truly sorry for this little unpleasant encounter, ladies." Ser Carver's eyes followed the mage slowly strolling away from them. "He's a very talented mage and a great asset to the Circle of Magi, although he's a bit… unstable." The Templar coughed in uneasiness and didn't dare mentioning it would have helped if Madame Leticia hadn't of insulted him.

"Leandra?" Madame Leticia turned to her thoughtful protégé. Although the young woman tried hard to get a hold of herself again, Leticia noticed the eager questions in her young innocent eyes, that disconcert in her soul the young mage had left there, and her tensed body craving for a possibility to run after him.

"Let's go." Leandra couldn't recognize her own hoarse voice as she bolted out of the Gallows. The package was forgotten for now. Everything was forgotten right now for Leandra Amell, replaced with a face of the young impertinent mage.

Madame Leticia knew it from this very moment. Her precious Leandra was doomed from now on.

oOo

Comfortable and easy life was far away from Leandra now. Pretty dresses, wholesome meals and drinks were far away from her, too. The memories of her previous life seemed so distant; she wondered if they were really hers or someone else's.

Leandra Hawke shivered as she slowly rose from a sagging mattress. A pale hand brushing her forehead, almost inaudible sigh escaping her dried lips. She couldn't even remember the name of an inn they were currently staying in for three days. Bethany was sleeping while sitting by the shabby table; her book was under her head and the shortening candle was flickering in a draft coming through the decrepit walls and a single window. Distant voices made Leandra to wrap herself in a cloak and press the ear on the chipboard door.

"… told you he'd ruin everything and here we go, father!"

"Hey! I wasn't the one brandishing daggers around, so watch your mouth, brother!"

"Shut up! Both of you! You're worthless when working together. I should've known it wouldn't turn out well with you two included!"

The indignant voices were growing louder and Leandra recognized the voices of her husband and two sons, quibbling over some nonsense again no doubt. The door was kicked open and Carver marched in, brooding, crunching curses between his teeth. He was followed by Leandra's first-born son Samael who looked like he was about to murder somebody. Well, more likely his own and only brother judging by the look he sent his way.

"Malcolm…?" Leandra's eyes were full of questions as she glanced at her husband, demanding an explanation. Malcolm just shook his head like he wasn't prone to discuss it right now, while Samael revived the fire and started pacing around it.

"Samael…" Malcolm tried to calm down his son, but he just shook father's hand off his shoulder, hurled another scorching glare at his brother and continued pacing. "Calm down my son." Malcolm tried hard not to slap his defiant and quick-tempered son this time.

"I told you!" Samael halted and his long black hair whirled through the air as he turned to his father suddenly. "I told you I work alone, father!" he aimed his index finger at Malcolm in a rather accusatory gesture. Leandra couldn't help herself and wondered for the hundredth time about the unbelievable resemblance her husband and her son shared. The same height, same broad chest and muscular shoulders, long black disheveled hair, exactly the same blazing eyes with a fire within them.

"And I told you countless times we are family and we work as a family!" Malcolm's voice gained a threatening undertone and both men fell silent, glaring at each other.

"Malcolm, please…" Leandra walked between them cautiously. "Don't argue," her eyes pleaded with Samael who set his jaw rather than adding some scorching comment.

"You're right, my love." Malcolm's eyes softened as soon as his gaze landed on Leandra's worried face. "Let's sleep. We should leave in two or three days, so we're going to enjoy ourselves tomorrow," he rounded up his explanation with a coarse smile.

"We should leave tonight." Samael couldn't help himself and stubbornly droned his opinion.

"I said we're leaving in a few days!" Malcolm jerked and looked back at his son, challenging him to try even harder and get himself kicked out of their room.

"I don't trust that bartender. I told you so as soon as we've arrived, father!" Samael stalked closer to his father and this time it was his eyes pleading with Malcolm to listen and start packing their modest property.

"That bartender is well-paid to leave us alone, son!" Malcolm's voice was about to flip into roaring in anger. Samael said nothing to his outburst; he turned his back at Malcolm and walked ostentatiously to his corner of the room where he had his own straw mattress and his one valise which was never fully unpacked. Malcolm carried his only daughter to her bedroll carefully and smiled to himself when she mumbled something undecipherable.

Leandra looked around the dreary room before she went to sleep. Sleeping Bethany in one corner, her short dark brown hair was disheveled into a thatch. Sulking Carver in another corner who won't speak to them for at least a day no doubt because of what had happened that day. Then there was her nineteen year old son Samael who was cleaning his fingernails with a dagger, occasionally stopping and hearkening to the sounds behind the closed door. And finally – Leandra's husband who fell into their bed, obviously exhausted. Yes, Leandra's old life seemed very much like a dream right now. But would she want to swap those two lives? I think not.

oOo

The trees were whispering and a weather vane creaked as the wind was growing stronger before the storm. The whole village seemed to be asleep and the watchman counted silver he had received from _somebody_.

Samael's eyes flashed open although there was no sensible reason why should he be awake in 2 AM. Then he heard it. Lots of unobtrusive sounds, clink here, low thud there. Painfully familiar hushed voices and cautious steps on the stairs.

There was no expression whatsoever on Samael's face as he got to his feet and pulled his high boots on. Samael whispered only two words when he woke his father up and checked on the twin blades swaying by his hip.

"They're coming."

oOo

Samael had learned years ago to count the Templars with nothing but his weapons. One Templar's head was rolling down the stairs. Two Templars were intertwined in a deadly embrace when Samael made them to pierce each other with their own swords. One Templar gurgled on the blood-stained floor. The way forward was open as the Hawke family made their way through the inn in the middle of night. Malcolm came up with a plan as always, but he was well-aware that all it would take was one mistake and they would be all dead in a second since the whole village was swarming with Templar-hunters and bounty hunters.

Samael couldn't help himself, but he was despairing. Their situation was never more dire and serious as it was right now. They had no escape routes lined up; they had no allies and no money. As they were running for their lives through the village, the door in a wrecked old house creaked and an old woman beckoned at them. Samael and Malcolm exchanged a glance, musing about the very same thing no doubt. Could they trust that strange woman? Malcolm glanced back at his fuming younger son. His wife and Bethany were already lagging behind them, barely catching their breath.

"Templars have a wagon with horses by the Chantry's side entrance," the old woman nodded at Malcolm, "take it and lead them to the woods." The old veiled eyes then watched as the rest of the Hawke family reached her home. "I'll keep your family safe, but you must distract them. Head north. You can lose them in the gorges. Go!" she almost ordered Malcolm and reached for Bethany at the same time.

"Just how do we know you won't —" Samael started, but his father's raised hand silenced him.

"I'll come after you, granny, if this is a trick," he growled at the old woman, but he did push his kin inside one by one. Everyone, except for…

"Are you insane? I'm not going to hide while you're being chased through the wilds!" Samael yanked his arm out of Malcolm's hand with a disbelief in his widened eyes.

"I'm not arguing about this, Samael! Get inside and —"

"No! I'm coming with you!" Samael hissed at him, then turned to his siblings and mother. "Be quiet, hide, we'll be back soon," he ordered them and wondered for a second if he'd see them again. "Can I borrow it?" he asked the old woman and nodded towards the small bags stuffed with straw. Before she could answer, he grasped three of them and bolted away from the little house, leaving his father no other choice than to hide as well or follow him. They made sure the bounty-hunters saw them taking the horses and the wagon and the witty Samael stuck the bags on the wooden sticks, planting them that they looked like heads from behind.

"Clever…" Malcolm sneered at his son while taking the reins and seating himself on a coach box in haste.

"You sound almost surprised, father…" Samael muttered his reply and jumped on the wagon. The horses neighed when they felt a whip on their backs and they darted forward into darkness. Arrows wheezed through the air and rained onto the wagon, but Samael managed to cover himself with a rusty shield he had found inside the wagon, though Malcolm wasn't that lucky. An arrow was stuck in his shoulder, but he just ripped it off and hurled it away. The pursuers on horses were closing in when Samael pushed a huge chest off the wagon right under the hooves of bounty-hunters and six Templars; the rest of the squad had died by Samael's hands.

The young assassin noticed one arrow was stuck in a straw "head", so he pulled it down, intending to preserve the illusion the whole Hawke family was on this wagon and one of them was dead already.

"Samael! Get on the damned horse! We can't continue on the wagon if we're heading into gorges." Malcolm's voice was slightly colored by the pain in his shoulder, but Samael couldn't see the dark spreading stain on his father's under tunic. Both men jumped onto the horses, Samael cut off the wagon and soon they were dashing through the woods in an insane tempo.

"Now they know we're all they can get here and others must be someplace else," Malcolm shouted back at his son whose horse seemed it would drop dead at any second.

"They won't turn away, don't worry," Samael panted and heeled the exhausted horse, "not now, when they think they're about to capture us," he glanced back at the once again closing enemies. They crossed a narrow dusty road and suddenly their horses covered in sweat halted, nickering. A huge mass of rocks were looming ominously above them.

"The Whispering Gorges," Malcolm breathed out and slid down off the horse. "No way we're forcing those horses to enter." He felt his own blood streaming down his back, but there was no time to heal it or at least bandage it.

"We will show them how to play hide and seek…" Samael cackled nervously, but the sound of it frightened them both. "Are you all right?" he approached his father, noticing he stood there in a stiff pose, clenching his arm.

"Maybe…" Malcolm whispered and glanced back. "Maybe you should go alone, my son." Those words died away and Samael couldn't breathe a word for a second. What was he saying? That he should leave his own father, his own blood, at the mercy of several seriously pissed off Templars and countless warped bounty hunters?

"Nonsense!" Samael flared up and pushed his father roughly into the narrowing gorge. They started running since the arrows hammered on the stone above their heads again. Samael lost count of the long minutes they had been running through the meandering dark corridors, narrowing, spreading, and branching off into several possible ways. They had no order when choosing the next gorge. They just knew the moment they'd stop, they were dead. The bounty-hunters were hounding them, shouting at each other or yelling at the refugees, mocking them, laughing at them. At least the Templars seemed to be slower than the others, possibly because of their plated armor.

It happened in a second. A stray arrow found its way through the corridor they had been scooting through and at first Samael didn't know nor he cared about what had happened. He felt his breath stuttering, he felt his legs slowing down, he felt the moist fabric on his back, but he refused to believe something was wrong. Well, other than being chased through the unknown landscape by the avaricious bounty-hunters and overzealous Templars.

"Samael! Which way?" Malcolm went into a skid and turned back at his son who just stood there at the crossroad of six possible ways. "Samael?" Malcolm almost whispered when his son remained still. Finally the lad slowly reached his hand behind his back, and then he brought it back, staring at it in moonlight. It was covered with black fluid dripping into the pebbly sand. Malcolm was fast enough to catch his son's body which started collapsing on the ground helplessly.

"No, no, no, please, not this..." Malcolm fell to his knees with his son's writhing body in his arms. He realized they were about to be found, captured, killed, whatever the pursuers intended to do with them. As it turned out – definitely kill them since the first scoundrel who appeared right in front of Malcolm roared in both anger and perverted joy, then he launched forward. Malcolm didn't know how many of them he had killed right there on the crossroad, but when he was done with them, he found himself encircled with corpses and he was covered with blood. And his son was dying. Covered with blood… Utterly covered with fresh blood. Bathed in it actually. And Samael was dying.

Malcolm didn't think twice before he kneeled by his son's cooling body, smearing the blood on his face; his own blood, Samael's blood and the blood of every bastard he had killed. Distant mumbling of the long forgotten words, ghostly feeling of the flames dancing inside of his veins and piercing pain in his back – that was all Samael was realizing at that moment.

"Wake up, my son," the voice in Samael's head commanded. Well, why the hell not, right? If only Samael could, right? Well, to his eternal surprise, he could.

"Wake up, damn it, son!" the voice commanded again, now properly peeved. Before he knew it, Samael was standing, leaning on the rock, still shaking, still covered in blood, but… somehow alive and unharmed. Unlike Malcolm who was barely able to stand on his feeble feet, completely exhausted, hurt, pale and defeated.

"We must… ehm… go." Samael still had problems to fathom that he was dying a minute ago and now he was simply not.

"Yes," Malcolm agreed almost inaudibly, "you must go, my son." He set his eyes at Samael and the boy was able to see the fire within them was smothered.

"W-what are you talking about?" the lad faltered and took a step back from the elder man.

"You heard me! Run! Save yourself! Save our family!" Malcolm rasped his reply and pushed his son up the middle path which seemed to be the right path out of the perfidious gorges. But the boy just stood there with his mouth hanging.

"No." Samael finally found his voice again and he was surprised how brutally that one word sounded. The clinging of armor and terse words reached them. The Templars. Six of them.

With the strength Malcolm didn't even know he possessed, he slapped the defiant yet beloved son to wake him up and see the truth. Malcolm was exhausted, he was done here. But his son could live on, but he was willing to die here side by side with his father. Malcolm clasped the boy's head with his both hands, leaving the black disheveled hair flowing through the callous fingers.

"You told me once something, son." Malcolm breathed out after a minute of silent staring into his son's eyes. "I want you to remember it," he shook the boy's head urgently. Samael knew perfectly what his father was speaking of.

"I serve to no one —" Samael whispered and a lone tear dropped down his cheek.

"— and you bow to no one." Malcolm finished the sentence for him when it was clear Samael wasn't able to continue. "I'll hold the barrier as long as I'm alive, son, which won't be for much longer, it appears." Malcolm chortled shortly, but the lad didn't buy his pretended repose.

Malcolm Hawke stumbled a few steps back, supporting himself on the stone overhang; his eyes were still locked with Samael's. The mage's hands started emanating silver light and it flowed between the two f them. It was beautiful. It was dreadful.

"Go, my son," Malcolm nodded at the lad to ensure him it was all right, even when it wasn't at all. "RUN!" Malcolm cried out through the barrier when the Templars appeared around the corner with a victorious hue and cry. And Samael ran. He ran even when the distant sound of combat reached his ears. He ran even when the dazzling lights were crossing the early morning sky. He dared looking back just once, right before the path turned left. The silver barrier was still blocking the path Samael had taken. Then it flickered and went out.

oOo

Samael woke up completely disoriented. Vaguely, he remembered running and nothing but running away from his father and the Templars. He remembered he had found an old hut deep in the woods once he was able to emerge from the gorges labyrinth. He also remembered entering that dilapidated shack, rummaging through broken furniture, dozens of old personal things and going upstairs. Then he lost it. He cried, yelled, kicked anything in his way, shattering the already shattered things. Then nothing. Judging by the fact he had been sleeping downstairs on the floor and by the huge hole in the ceiling, his rampage had apparently exceeded some acceptable point.

It was evening as it turned out when the lad cautiously peered outside. The only thing that made sense was to go back to the village to find out what happened to the rest of his family or to run far away and never look back. During this dilemma, Samael's legs started slowly moving on their own, walking back to the gorges in their own footsteps. Well, at least this matter was resolved for now. Samael dragged himself to the place where the barrier had been last night. Drops of dried blood in the sand, one Templar corpse and a staff. Malcolm Hawke's staff. Scratched, even cracked, but it really was his father's staff. With a blank expression, the boy picked it up and started reeling away, leaning on it. Samael's confused and tired mind half-expected someone would scream at him: patricide.

oOo

The village seemed calm and deserted-like in the light of the moon, but Samael knew he couldn't allow himself to be reckless or fooled by this placid façade again. It wasn't hard to avoid the perennially-drunk watchman as the boy slipped through the village like a shadow.

The old woman had awakened when the candle sizzled and went out, but she did feel presence of somebody else in the room and she was way too old to be afraid of anything that could be lurking in the shadows behind her.

"So you've returned, young man," she rasped into the silence when she had spotted the lad devouring the whole loaf of bread she had baked for breakfast. "Or should I say new head of the family, hm?" Woman's eyes roamed around the room for a while, but there was nobody else.

"Where are they?" Samael asked with his head hanging, holding his breath. Maybe out of spite, the woman took her time before answering.

"They're all alive and asleep in the basement," she replied and even smiled when the lad collapsed on the chair in relief, hiding his head in palms.

"Why?" was the young Hawke's first question when he was able to talk again. "Why would you help an apostate family, hag?" he watched the old woman and broke off yet another huge piece of bread.

"I have done many things in my life I need to atone for, lad." Old woman stood up abruptly and tried to revive the fire. "I'll even help you to get out of here. You head south tomorrow. There's a little village named Lothering. There's a Chantry and my sister is the Revered Mother there. Do tell her the truth about you and your family. She'll help. Now get some sleep and don't try to steal anything." The old woman glanced at the one prepared bedroll and hobbled into the other room without the subtlest glance back.

"Wait! Shouldn't I… tell them?" Samael's throat constricted when he realized he had to tell his family their father and husband won't be coming back. That he had abandoned him; listened to him and ran away like a coward.

"There would be plenty of time for that tomorrow, lad." The old woman shot a pensive glance over her shoulder. "Let them sleep now. Oh yes, let them dream while they can…" her words trailed off into some undecipherable ramble. It was like she hit the young exhausted lad with some spell, because he was sleeping right after his head touched the pillow.

oOo

"Mum! It's him! Samael is back! I told you they would return!"

Those frantic words didn't make much sense to Samael who was woken up by his little sister smothering him in a tight hug. Clumping of boots and hushed excited voices coming from basement told Samael the rest of his family was on a way up.

"Oh, my baby, you made it back!" Leandra threw herself at her eldest son and Samael's eyes met with Carver's narrowed ones. He just stood there with his arms folded on chest; no joy over his alive brother.

"Where is father?" was his first, almost truculent question. Samael gulped, speechless. Then it became even worse when they all stared at him, their eyes widened in suspense.

"I… He… Well…" Samael started fidgeting and he was searching the faces around him one by one.

"He's dead." A raw voice stated dryly the obvious. The old woman limped by them, not even looking at any of them. A deafening silence followed.

"I don't believe you! You liar! That's not true!" Carver was the one ripping the silence apart.

"Samael?" Leandra, her eyes swimming in tears, wanted to hear it directly from her son.

"I'm sorry, mother," the lad downcast his swollen eyes. "He's gone," he mumbled towards his bare feet.

Only crying and sobbing was heard in the room for the next hour. The three Hawkes were holding each other, wailing over the lost father and husband; one Hawke stood the whole time apart from them. Samael was surrounded by his family, yet he was all alone from now on.

oOo

Percy Stanton, the bartender and also owner of The Three Horsemen inn threw out the last drunken customer, counted the coins, sneered and went to pour himself a beer. His wife had died four years ago and he was proud of himself that he was able to maintain the inn on his own. Living in this little village had turned this kind, small and chubby man into an opportunistic and cunning charlatan, but the neighbors liked him nonetheless since he went to the Chantry every Sunday and he contributed regularly to the poor.

Whistling, Percy locked the door, gulped down his delicious dewy beer and headed for his bedroom upstairs. He stopped whistling when his gaze landed on a fat pouch of silver he had received from the Templars two days ago. Should he be worried for the immortality of his soul? Should he be praying for those he had betrayed?

Nah.

Percy figured he had a tough life, so it was perfectly all right to keep the bribe and let those Templars do their job. Right. Actually, he didn't do anything wrong, did he? Apostates belong to the Circle of Magi after all. So, Percy was just a humble servant of the Maker when he said to the Templars there was an apostate family in the room 2 upstairs. Yeah, let's leave it with that.

Quiet whistling resounded in the bedroom again, but it sounded different this time. Percy glanced every ten seconds at the pouch and his blithe whistling was slowing down. Finally he couldn't bear looking at the fat pouch of silver anymore, so he snatched it and tossed it into a closet, closing the door carefully.

"It won't make you feel better you know," a gruff voice spoke from the dark bathroom.

"Who… What's… How dare you…!" Percy squeaked and fumbled for a sword hidden beneath the bed. Samael grasped him by the neckline and dragged him into the bathroom along with a candlestick.

"Look at yourself," Samael hissed into the old man's ear, forcing him to look into the oblong mirror. Percy resisted, but the young man overpowered him easily. "Look at yourself," Hawke repeated and shook the man to open his eyes in front of the mirror.

"Please, Messere, I didn't mean to —" Percy started begging and genuine tears shone in his piggy eyes.

"Yes, apparently you didn't mean to take my father and my sister from me. The dangerous apostates. I'm afraid, that huge pouch of coins tells me otherwise, you stinker." Samael squeezed the old man's throat and leaned down, so his face appeared in the mirror right next to Percy's. Clearly he intended to ask another question, though he had no idea how to say it. "Stay here," he growled finally and disappeared for a half of minute, only to re-appear with the pouch of silver, hurling it into the porcelain basin which was under the mirror. "Open it," he ordered the old bartender and he indeed didn't dare defy the clearly deranged boy. "There's a lot of silver, don't you think?" Samael added a nonchalant comment while his fingers raked through the coins. A nervous nod from Percy along with a loud gulp.

"Messere, I promise, I won't do anything like this ever again. Take the silver, take anything you want, I swear; my mouth will be shut forever..." The words were jabbering out of Percy's mouth uncontrollably.

"Yes." Samael's face was bloodless and looked like a wax mask. "Yes, your mouth will be shut forever." He slit the old man's throat, making sure the fresh blood would coat the coins in the purse he intended to take with him. After all, he had a family to take care of now. The heavy body thudded on the floor and Hawke took the pouch. Only now did he noticed his face had been sprayed with tiny drops of Percy's blood. Samael shrugged, blew out the candles and disappeared into the night.

Three pairs of sad eyes were waiting for him on a small shaky wagon the old woman had borrowed them along with her only draft animal.

"We're heading south," Samael answered their mute question and scanned the vicinity with his trained eyes. Everybody seemed indifferent to his statement, so Hawke took the reins and forced the donkey to move. He bowed when he was passing by the old woman standing on the doorstep of her shabby home. She nodded and smiled mischievously, sucking on her toothless gums.

"Five Hawkes came to this village, only four are leaving this place," the old woman muttered to herself and nodded again like everything was just the way it was supposed to be.


	3. Chapter 3

"I know you fear us! Knight-Commander Meredith uses that fear to take control of your city. She opposes every effort to replace Viscount Dumar and you have seen the chaos of her reign already. Will you allow it?" Orsino himself wasn't sure what exactly he was trying to accomplish here, on the Hightown courtyard, but he felt like he was choking in his small office at the Gallows lately. He had to do something, anything, yet he had no idea what it should be. Should he continue trying to keep the fragile peace between the Templars and mages? Should he appease Meredith's every whim because he was too afraid of the consequences if he didn't? Should he hold back the rebellion that had been brewing in Kirkwall Undercity for years? Orsino clutched the staff he had been leaning on, but before he could continue, the large crowd of grousing listeners waved, gasped and started parting by itself in front of Meredith and her wrath.

"Return to your homes!" she rapped out at the gapers and jabbed her eyes into the First Enchanter who returned that disdainful gaze. "This farce is over," Meredith gestured at the nearest people to get lost. Her heart started racing when she realized nobody had moved, the people no longer mindlessly obeyed her commands like she was used to.

"As you can see Knight-Commander, there are plenty of good people in Kirkwall who would like to listen to me and who would like you to answer a few questions!" Orsino made a few bold steps towards the fuming Meredith and, just to be sure, he grasped his staff with both hands. Seeing he had at least a few supporters in the crowd, the First Enchanter continued. "How can you claim Kirkwall needs its Templars more than its new ruler? How far should I let you go, so everyone could see your true nature, true plans of seizing the power? Or should I remain patient and simply stand by while you're looking for evil in every corner?"

"See?" Meredith glanced around her and laughed openly at the First Enchanter's desperate face. "People of Kirkwall, should I remain calm when this _mage_ provokes an uprising? I think not! For the sake of all of us. I _dare_ not! My only interest here is to keep order and protecting the innocent. And no mage will lecture me about how to do my damn job!" Meredith closed the distance between her and Orsino and gave him such a glare the First Enchanter gulped and remained silent.

"What the hell are you all doing here?" an unfamiliar voice growled loud enough for everyone to hear it. The crowd once again parted by itself and everybody fell silent, even those two irreconcilable rivals.

"It's the Champion… Champion's here… Maybe he should say something… Maybe he could do something… The Champion came…" The whispers spread throughout the whole crowded courtyard and those on the far end started stretching their necks to see for themselves what was going on in front of Hawke estate.

"Ah, Hightown," Varric sighed in contentment like a half of Kirkwall wasn't staring at them right now. "Where the rich go to piss their money away. This really is the best place in Kirkwall," he looked up at Hawke's loured face and smirked.

"Varric!" Aveline sizzled and punched the dwarf to be quiet. Anders made an inconspicuous step behind Hawke's broad back. There were way too many Templars at the courtyard at that moment; he wasn't sure if Hawke's presence meant any protection for him and he wasn't about to tease the snake and find out.

"Ah, the Champion and his minions," Orsino snorted, folded his thin arms on chest and ignored Aveline's outraged face. That insulting word _minion_ included herself after all. It took Samael several unbelievably long seconds to realize the whole crowd was waiting for him to say something. Meredith's eyes narrowed, but even she remained motionless and silent for now.

"So," Hawke coughed in uneasiness and stalked to those two morons who were about to tear Kirkwall apart, "what's going on here?" he asked and was proud of himself that he even sounded like he cared.

"Orsino decided to play games and test my patience, Champion. Again." Meredith took an opportunity and strolled by Hawke's side, so there were the two of them facing Orsino right now.

"And I imagine you're quite happy to finally have a reason to throw his magical ass into prison for that…" Hawke raised an eyebrow and folded his arms on chest, too. He did notice Meredith's repositioning and he made a step so he would stand between them again.

"And what else would you have me to do, Champion? Should I ignore his malicious words? He's igniting a rebellion here!" Meredith shrieked and threw her arms sideways like she had no other choice than to clap Orsino in irons which would deeply upset her no doubt, judging by that victorious sneer on her face.

"Do not drag the Champion into the mess you've caused by your blind desire for power, Meredith!" Orsino flared up and his staff sent a few purple sparks into the air. He turned to Hawke afterwards because his next words were meant strictly to him. "Go throw some party, _Champion_, or smuggle even more lyrium into Kirkwall, _Champion_. Nobody needs you here."

There was deafening silence after this impassioned statement and all eyes were set at Hawke who definitely wasn't known for his good manners and tolerance for insults. Judging by his fiery eyes which were about to set Orsino on fire, Hawke was going to live up to those legends about him.

Without needless words, Samael unwittingly made a step towards the mage and a blade flashed in his right hand.

"Hawke!" Aveline tried to catch Samael's hand unsuccessfully and she thought indeed this was bound to end badly for the First Enchanter.

"I love drama, Hawke, but, you know, maybe it's not a good idea to murder a city representative at a crowded Hightown courtyard," Varric muttered and couldn't help himself but admired Orsino's courage to stand up to, well, everyone.

"My, my, such a terrible commotion." A calm, nonchalant voice entered the quarrel suddenly. It was like Samael had heard a voice of reason in his head, since the blade disappeared in his shroud before he turned to the newcomer.

"Your Grace…" Hawke gave the Grand Cleric a subtle bow and it was hard to say who was more surprised by his unexpected and polite greeting he had just performed. Hawke's companions exchanged an astonished glance when Samael's head remained bowed like he wasn't able to face the grey wise depths of Elthina's inquiring eyes.

"This mage incites rebellion, Your Grace." Meredith rushed forward to explain what was going on. "I'm dealing with the matter, as always."

"I have ears, Meredith," Elthina remarked dryly, "the Maker would have me use them." She overlooked the whole scene and considered carefully her next words and actions. There was the frustrated Orsino desperately clenching his staff, Meredith, warped by a thirst for power, and the two-faced crowd that would hail to anyone strong enough to win this fight. And then there was Hawke. The enigmatic Hawke, infamous mercenary, smuggler and vanquisher of the Arishok. Elthina had to admit she expected Hawke to look different. Maybe a scarred tall scoundrel, chewing tobacco, or a little sly man with insincere smile and cunning eyes. Definitely not this young lad with long black disheveled hair and fire within his eyes. A lad who wasn't even able to look into her eyes properly for unknown reasons. Oh, she saw well that long sinuous blade in his hand just a second before it disappeared. But there he was, standing without a move in front of her with his head bowed in mute submission. Elthina sighed before she spoke again.

"I do not know nor do I care for what was said here. This matter won't be resolved at the city courtyard nonetheless," she glanced at Orsino and he understood her words were meant mostly for him. He felt silly. What was he thinking, nettling Meredith and pushing her over the edge of a mountain called insanity?

"But —" Meredith stepped forward and her exasperated face demanded at least punishment for the First Enchanter. Even the Grand Cleric's raised hand couldn't stop her outburst. "He should be clapped in irons! Made an example of what happens to those who are disturbing—"

"That's enough, Meredith." Elthina straightened up and the authority breaking through her serene face made the Knight-Commander to shut up. "This," Elthina gestured around her, "demeans us all. Surely you are able to see that. Go back to the Gallows and calm down, like a good girl," she gestured in the proper direction and Meredith had no other choice than obey that indirect order. "Young man," Elthina turned to the nearest Templar with an imperceptible smile on her lips, "see the First Enchanter back to his office. Gently, if you please," she granted Orsino a thoughtful gaze before her eyes found Hawke again.

"Champion," she addressed the young taciturn man and she simply stood in front of him as long until he finally looked at her. "You have my thanks for stepping in. I don't dare guess where this would ended if you hadn't interfered." Elthina decided to test Hawke; to make him think she didn't see that he was about to overreact and attack Orsino over a few harsh words.

"I didn't mean to meddle, Your Grace." Samael was no fool and he knew that she knew. Although he wasn't sure if she knew, that he knew, that she knew. Well, it was complicated. Elthina watched in silence Hawke's withdrawn face for a while before she spoke again.

"I would like to speak with you, Champion." Elthina glanced around her and she was well aware of the departing Meredith who stopped to hear what Elthina had been saying to Hawke. "In private," Elthina added casually. "Come to the Chantry when you have time to spare, Champion." Elthina's kind, yet imperative words left no space for Hawke to maneuver and avoid the confrontation with the Grand Cleric. What could she possibly want from a bad, blasphemous person like himself? There was no topic they could discuss together, no reason he should go there and talk to her. So why the hell he bowed in agreement and headed for the front door of his estate?

"Sheesh, Hawke, one would hope that book about diplomacy I gave you was supposed to teach you something." Varric collapsed on the sofa and clenched his heart in pretended shock. "Now I see I should've invested the coins I paid for the book into Antivan cigars or Nevarran wine," he belched and snatched a drink he found prepared on a table.

"At least he didn't kill anyone…" Aveline murmured and sat down. Her words were barely audible above the clinging of her armor.

"See?" Samael grinned and made a triumphant gesture. "I didn't kill anyone," he added a bit hysterically, pulled a cork out of the whiskey bottle with his teeth, spat it out and took a generous gulp. If anyone would take a closer look at their leader, they would see he was deeply upset after the encounter with the Grand Cleric. And even more upset after he realized the people of Kirkwall were counting on him, looking up at him, listening to him. He really _was_ the Champion of Kirkwall and he was being ridiculous denying this inconvenient fact.

"Well, let's drink for that then." Anders raised his own glass of whiskey. "To Hawke who hasn't killed anyone today!"

"Yet," the self-willed dwarf murmured, but lifted up the glass as well.

"And the Maker wept…" Aveline sighed, but met Hawke's bottle with her own glass, if only a bit hesitant. She twitched when it chinked though. It was like a presage of horrible things that were about to happen in Kirkwall.

oOo

Once again Hawke found himself at Sundermount. He even ceased all attempts to curse himself anymore; it was futile after all. Occela was happily roaming around a vast glade and Samael watched him for a while before his feet took him inadvertently closer to the Dalish camp. Without difficulties, Hawke sneaked past the patrols and seated himself cheekily on a huge willow tree as usual. A full moon lit the whole camp that night with a silver light. A cold spring running through the camp sang of oblivion and branches upon Hawke's head waved in a gentle breeze. Samael leaned comfortably back on his seat and pressed his cheek against the coarse bark which smelled of resin and moss.

Quiet.

Peace.

A silhouette creeping along the rivulet.

Samael's eyes narrowed when he focused at the intruder, yet he remained motionless, making no sound which could easily startle the creeper who just skillfully jumped over the rivulet.

A rustle of folded vellum, almost inaudible hissing sound as the silhouette glanced around the camp, then back at the vellum, then once again at the arravels and tents around. Samael's heart skipped a beat when the stalker stuck the vellum back into a pocket and headed infallibly for the Keeper's tent. Hawke shifted on his spot and the moon reflected itself in a short blade in the stranger's hand. The thick branch Hawke had been sitting on a second ago was empty now.

The stranger felt his heartbeat in his throat, yet he wasn't doing this for the first time. It was something he had been trained to do after all. The Maker Himself approved of this deed after all. So why he jumped up in alarm when the wind in grass behind his back whispered of murder? The silhouette looked around wildly, brandishing its weapon in disquiet. But no – there was nobody nearby. Just wind, yes, it must have been wind. The silhouette turned back to the Keeper's tent and froze on the spot. Somebody stood there, motionless, while the wind was playing with long dark hair protruding from beneath the hood.

They stared at each other for one long minute, silent, still, estimating the unexpected opponent. Samael needn't bother guessing twice about the reason that man had come here for in the middle of night. An assassin. And as far as Hawke could tell, a well-trained, well-equipped assassin, expecting no resistance. It should have been a clean, easy job. The elves were supposed to find their Keeper dead in a bed in the morning, no traces of an intruder, no struggle, nothing.

Yet the hired assassin was now facing this tall, motionless ghost, whose intentions were revealed when Hawke slowly unsheathed his rapier and a short dagger. So… a protector then. The assassin sneered and mirrored Hawke.

Their duel was vicious, merciless and silent. Samael quickly learned he had no amateur in front of him and after five minutes he had to admit the guy was good. Hawke's wounded thigh hurt, a deep slash on his cheek throbbed, but Samael's attack was speeding up while the assassin was quickly tiring, yet until now he was able to parry Hawke's attack, which was something unnatural for Samael indeed.

Hawke knew well they could have been easily interrupted by the patrol or by Merrill, awakened by the fight, however quiet it was. Or the assassin would beat him and finish his job. Samael shuddered at this thought and marshaled his every resource of body and spirit, calling upon all of his abilities and strength. Block the pain, focus, kill. It was that simple. This needed to end and end quickly. He leaped forward, flying through the air, his hair whirling in streams behind him, his weapons aimed.

Utter silence settled at the Dalish camp once more after the assassin gave his death rattle, his writhing body stiffened and the dirt started drinking his blood voraciously. Samael collapsed in the grass right next to the corpse, panting and clenching his leg. The pain flooded him and he felt his own warm blood soaking his hands.

"Who the fuck were you," he muttered under his nose and groaned in pain when he reached for the vellum the assassin had in his pocket. A detailed plan of the Dalish camp, the Keeper's tent was crossed with fat red X. The worst part? The vellum carried the Templar insignia. Hawke dragged himself up on his feet again, hiding the incriminating vellum in his shroud. He felt dizzy, but it was Meredith's obvious intervention which was worrying him right now.

Samael's wandering eyes stopped at the cooling assassin and he didn't give it much thought before he arranged him into a calm sleeping position with his arms folded on chest and his weapons lying in his lap. He would never know whom he had killed that night and how he ended up with an assassination contract on a Dalish Keeper. Something prevented Hawke from simply leaving the camp and that something was Merrill of course. Perhaps this was the reason she came to Hawke. Perhaps she was scared, hunted, and he refused to even see her in his arrogance and wounded pride. She came for help and he let her down. Yes, he might make it better by taking down the assassin, but it was just one man. What would have happened if he hadn't been here tonight? Would Hawke have learned from a Kirkwall crier that the Dalish Keeper was murdered in her sleep?

Samael knew he should return to Kirkwall, leaving no traces of his presence behind, yet he couldn't move. His vanity didn't let him. With a quiet curse, Hawke stuffed his blood-stained handkerchief into the assassin's mouth and made sure the Amell crest embroidered on it was well-visible and prominent.

"Who are you?" a hoarse voice slashed the silence suddenly and Samael whirled around as fast as his exhausted body let him. An elf stood four feet away from him, unarmed, staring at him with wide-open lucid eyes. The elf blinked and the silhouette was gone. At the same time he felt a cold blade on his slender throat, yet he noticed the blade was quivering and the stranger behind his back was breathing heavily.

"What's your name?" That hushed velvet voice in his pointed ear sent shivers down the elf's spine and for a brief moment he couldn't move nor talk.

"Veryan," he replied finally and tried to peer at his tormentor's face. All he was able to glimpse before his head was forced to look forward were the blazing amber eyes and an ugly bleeding slash across the left cheekbone.

"You saw nothing, Veryan," Samael sizzled through his teeth clenched in pain. Indeed he considered the possibility to dispatch that nosy elf, but Merrill would kill him if he dared to touch one of her precious brethren. Well, he did leave his own crest here, so there was no reason to kill anybody else, right? Judging by these confused thoughts and a mist he had in front of his eyes, Samael vaguely realized he had lost a lot of blood and he needed a healer.

The elf turned around in surprise when the blade disappeared and thus he saw the stranger tumbling down into the grass, crawling away and leaving a smear of black fluid behind him. Before the elf could move, a silhouette of a beautiful stallion materialized from the shadows, heading straight away to the fallen stranger. The beast whinnied softly and it slowly fell to its knees when it was clear its master wasn't able to mount it on his own. The elf watched in rapture as the stranger clenched the long silver mane, pulled himself up into the saddle and the stallion straightened up again into his full impressive height.

Full moon silvered the whole camp that night, a cold rivulet was still running tirelessly through the camp and it was still singing. Only now it sang of death.

oOo

"Oh, good, you're back, Hawke! We kind of forgot ourselves here, sorry, playing cards, chilling out, you know. And I wanted to ask you… about… my…" Aveline's words trailed off when she actually looked up from her cards and saw Hawke supporting himself on a door frame.

"Don't let me disturb you. I think… I'll just sit… Right here..." Samael murmured and started slowly collapsing down along the wall. Anders managed to catch him before he fell down completely. Soon enough, the mist in front of Samael's veiled eyes started dissipating and he felt this warm wave inside of his veins, washing away the pain and exhaustion.

"Fool of a Hawke!" An outraged cracked voice exclaimed and everybody glanced in surprise at Ichabod who had been practically running down the stairs with a book in his hand. It looked like he was about to bludgeon to death the poor Samael with it. Ichabod had been feeling like he had been walking on pins and needles for the last few weeks during which his son had been disappearing and reappearing as he pleased, spending nights outside, wandering Maker knew where and doing Maker knew what.

Feeling much better thanks to Anders' magic, Samael supported himself on the elbows and frowned at the impudent old man. Oh yes, the goblet of Hawke's patience with that peculiar man just overflowed. Who was he that he dared questioning him all the time, ferreting about him and his business, watching him with both vigilance and gall? And now he dared approaching him in this demeanor, yelling over a teeny tiny scratch he had sustained, like he _cared_ about him! Cared about him! How dared he? And why anyway? It was ridiculous! And what Ichabod meant by those words 'fool of a Hawke'? Did he know any other Hawke?

Samael forgot completely about his barely mended wound on his thigh as he swung his feet of the sofa and marched right in front of Ichabod. Anders wanted to object, but Varric was well-aware Samael was at the end of his patience with Ichabod. Just to confirm his thoughts, Samael pulled out a dagger in a blind rage as he pushed Bane against the wall and positioned the weapon precisely against Ichabod's racing heart. Killed by his own son, his own flesh and blood. Yeah, that made no sense to Ichabod, but, after all, his last few years of life weren't making any sense to him either. Warped by this frantic thought, Ichabod cackled, poked the dagger playfully with his finger and Samael started seeing through a red veil, panting, fuming and desperately searching for a reason not to push the blade into that insufferable being. He found none and Ichabod's dark cackling was growing louder and louder while the companions were gaping in awe at the absurd scene in front of them. The blade cut through the skin when Varric closed the distance between Hawkes and himself, clutching Samael's shoulder roughly, obviously unable to stand by and watch as his friend was murdering his own wacky father.

"Stop," he ordered Hawke with such a severity in his voice, that Samael actually listened to him.

"Why?" Samael asked, breathless, not taking his burning eyes off Bane's sneering face.

"Because he's your father," the dwarf uttered nonchalantly into the absolute silence. Oh, he loved drama indeed. Samael's hand holding the dagger dropped along with his mouth as he was watching in turns Ichabod and Varric. His head started shaking as he contemplated this information, realizing in horror that he knew it for weeks now. His father, who was supposed to be dead, was standing right in front of him, alive.

Malcolm Hawke. Alive.

Samael staggered a few steps away from him, watching him in disbelief. Malcolm's insane sneer was slowly vanishing. A dagger thudded on an expensive Orlesian rug. Nobody moved.

Malcolm Hawke. Very much alive.

Samael gasped when his back hit the wall and he groped it with his hands, looking for a way out. When he found the door, he tried to open it and succeeded when he tried it for the fourth time. A few steps towards the front door and he would be free of this nightmare. He would run away, far away, and never look back. His hand froze on the elaborate door knob when Malcolm shouted at him

"As I can see, running was and still is your answer for everything, son."

This simple statement broke Samael, shattered his mind into pieces, killed him. Thousands of memories connected somehow with his father flooded his already scattered mind. He slowly turned back and strolled in front of Malcolm who was watching him in suspense. Nobody even peeped.

"Go away." Samael's first attempt to send Malcolm out of his sight, out of his life, was almost inaudible.

"Go away." Samael leaned closer to his father, that even his hushed words were now perfectly clear and concise.

"Go away and never… come… back." Hawke hissed at his father with such a hate and scorn in his voice, Malcolm shivered and headed slowly for the front door in trance.

"Hawke…" Varric was about to reprimand the young rogue no doubt, but Samael's raised both palms stopped him. Anders simply stared at Malcolm's back as he slowly walked through the door, glanced back at his son for the last time and then he was gone.

"What did you want to ask of me, Aveline?" Samael couldn't believe his own voice asking with calmness about the things that didn't mattered right now. Nothing mattered. Nothing made sense anymore.

"Samael… I… Your father…" Aveline rambled when it was clear Hawke was waiting for her reply.

"Your question, Guards-Captain." Samael approached her, scowling, his eyes savage. He was about to lose it.

"Well, I wondered if there's a chance my wedding reception would take place here at your estate, Samael. But it can wait and surely you have other —"

"Permission granted. Ask that traitor," Hawke shot a glare at Varric, "to help you with preparations. He loves making parties and apparently stabbing friends in their backs." Samael didn't wait for some catty reply Varric would come up with no doubt, so he bolted out of the mansion, but not before he snatched a bottle of whiskey.

"Damn it…" was Varric's only comment before he collapsed on the sofa, hiding his head in palms. He felt, well, like a traitor indeed.

oOo

The bottle of Antivan whiskey was empty by the time Hawke reached the Hanged Man. He smashed it against the wall, spooking two lovers intertwined in a dark alcove and four cats snooping around for something to eat.

Corff cocked his head in thought when he had spotted Hawke making his way through the regulars towards the bar.

"Lord Hawke. Greetings," he spoke when Samael literally crashed into a bar, steadying himself on a solid wooden column. He had never seen Hawke in more sorry state than at that very moment. Drunk, disoriented, dirty, covered in blood and with no cloak despite the fact there was a spring early chilly morning outside.

"Just… in need of my lovely room, if you don't mind, Bowbitter." Hawke tried to focus at Corff's worried face, but gave up. The whole room was spinning around him. Hell, the whole world was spinning around him. He felt like the Maker Himself was toying with him for weeks just for His own personal amusement, turning Samael's life upside down just like that. Oh yes, Samael was gifted in many ways, but somehow he managed to screw up everything he had touched lately. It was like the Maker had been whispering in his ear fake advices, then rubbing his treacherous hands when something went wrong, laughing his sick fucking ass off. Look, but don't touch! Touch, but don't taste! Taste, but don't you dare swallow! And while Hawke was jumping from one foot to the other, the Maker fell off his throne, guffawing in tears. Worship something like that? Never! And Sebastian wondered why Hawke kept refusing to come to the Chantry; in only once.

"At your service, my Lord." Corff ruptured Samael's chain of muddled thoughts while he kept watching Hawke's face and he couldn't bear that sight of a broken man anymore. "What happened? Can I help?" he asked in a small voice, expecting insults or even threats from Hawke. Samael was thinking about those questions and decided to pass them with a joke; what else.

"Nothing a barrel of vintage Nevarran wine couldn't wash away," he replied and headed upstairs, swaying. Corff did notice Samael stopped by the table of frolicsome ladies, observed every each one of them carefully, before he nodded at the elven twins and continued in his way up. Corff just blinked in disbelief when the ladies followed obediently Hawke and closed the door of his room behind their backs, giggling.

"You are Hawke, aren't you," a woman purred when she started unbuttoning Hawke's dirty white shirt with broad bulbous sleeves.

"And you are a whore, aren't you," Samael countered with a venomous remark. The giggling stopped abruptly. "So shut up and make me… forget." Samael tossed a fat pouch of gold on the floor. The twins glanced at each other, shrugged and started giggling again. That request Hawke just had made was quite common after all.

oOo

A bland light of the spring sun started breaking through the early morning mist. Corff was about to turn in and his swollen eyes told Varric the young bartender had a long, long night.

"Where is he?" he lashed out at Bowbitter and kicked the overturned chair. Corff watched that outburst with his eyes narrowed into disapproving clefts, waiting for an apology. It was more than obvious Hawke and his companions were in trouble, but that was no reason to take it out on Corff or his property. Varric knew that as well, so he raised his palms in an apologetic gesture and exhaled loudly.

"Where is he?" the dwarf asked again, as calm and polite as he could be at this dire situation. Malcolm disappeared. Samael disappeared, too. Furthermore he was weak after his injury and he ran away last night like an insane person. Varric was worried; like really worried which wasn't normal for him.

"He came last night, grabbed some wine and women and went to his room. It's been only two hours since there was silence from the room, so I guess he's asleep finally," Corff glanced upstairs and sighed. Varric nodded and sauntered slowly towards Hawke's room, step by step, hesitant.

This scene was painfully familiar for the dwarf after he had opened the door. Room itself looked like after an explosion; scattered garments, pungent stink of alcohol, sweat and sorrow, and naked human entanglement on the messed up bed. Varric rolled his eyes and poked the whores as long as it took to wake them up and make them dress during which Varric had been staring outside the window intently.

"Did he pay you?" he asked hoarsely when they finished lacing up their bustiers which were more revealing than covering.

"Oh, he didn't have to…" the elder woman tittered and traced Hawke's well-defined back with her finger. That damned assassin didn't even move! Varric breathed a sigh of relief when they finally teetered away from the room and then he scratched his head, suddenly clueless. Why he had come here anyway? Damned Hawkes! Varric knew from the beginning Malcolm's plan had some serious flaws, like the one about Malcolm's crazy son. They almost killed each other last night – what a surprise.

Varric realized only now Hawke had been watching him with his swollen, barely open, still drunk eyes.

"Hawke…" the dwarf addressed his still-friend and tossed a blanket over his naked body.

"Varric…" Samael mirrored the dwarf, staying in his position. They gaped at each other in silence for a while, but then Varric realized he was angry. Well, angry, more like mad at Samael. The reckless boy threw out his own father last night, for the Maker's sake! Almost killed him in the first place! Not knowing how to come to terms with this fact, he grabbed the whores and liquor to make problems go away for a few hours, instead of dealing with them. Oh yes, Varric was furious.

"Samael, I just came here to say a few things," Varric's voice trembled as he sat down into the three-legged armchair. "Malcolm Hawke is alive. You kicked your father's ass out of your estate last night, without any regret. I promised I wouldn't tell you the truth about him and as much as it's hard to believe it – I do keep my promises." Samael opened his mouth to comment the dwarf's daring words and judging by his outraged, however sleepy expression, it would be nothing but accusation and insults. But Varric wasn't quite done with him, oh no. "Seeing you how you've been destroying yourself for weeks, tormenting those who care for you, I have come to a decision. Consider us no longer as friends, Hawke. Malcolm was and still is my friend, it's obvious you don't and you even won't treat him as my friend, but I won't let you hurt him, just like I haven't let anyone hurt you. Sure, you can come talk to me, have a beer or something, but do not consider me as your own personal punching bag or an adviser anymore. That would be all. Farewell, Hawke." Varric stood up hastily and headed for the door, too afraid, that Hawke would see those damned tears in his eyes.

"Varric…" Samael scrambled off the bed in panic, wrapping the blanket around him. "Varric, please…" he whispered, reeling as he brushed his hurting forehead with a palm. Maker, it felt like a dozen of tiny dwarves were gnawing tunnels in his head.

"You have been almost everything at some point in your life, Samael." Varric granted Hawke a sad smile full of sorrow and disappointment. "Everything, but never pathetic," he shook his head and opened the door. "Until now." Varric swept away a single tear roaming down his cheek and walked away.


	4. Chapter 4

If you were brave enough to wander through the convoluted Undercity tunnels, you'd eventually find an odd, low set iron door with no visible lock on it. Hawke hated that particular place, a secret place, which lay beyond that queer door. Despite that, he realized years ago that he needed a suitable place to conduct his business: someplace hidden, inaccessible, and far away from the inquiring eyes of the city guards and commoners.

There was a completely new world behind that black door. It was decorated with carpets, furniture, elaborate tapestries on the weeping walls, chandeliers with dozens of flickering candles, a huge rectangular table with uncomfortable iron chairs, and one plain black armchair forefront of that table. The whole chamber was now reminding of a beehive. People were scattered around in small groups, whispering about why they were summoned no doubt. Hawke had never called them because of small things, so this better be a big one and worth their time. They were all there — Carta agents, Merchants' Guild members, lesser shopkeepers, mercenaries, and a few nervous men coming on behalf of what was left of the Coterie.

Samael himself was lounging in an armchair in front of the cracking fireplace in a small chamber right next to the main hall; his eyes were closed, his hands lay in his lap calmly and his head was leaned comfortably against the smooth fabric of the armchair. Nobody could tell if Hawke was asleep or not, though he was intently listening to those hushed voices echoing behind the door. He spend the last hour convincing himself to do what he had come here for, to end his agony by starting to wrap up all business he had in Kirkwall. Maybe if he waited just a little bit longer… Maybe if he postponed his departure to Fereldan for a few weeks or even one month… What would happen?

Hawke jumped up abruptly and started pacing around the confined room, angry with himself and his damned weak will. Did he _want_ to leave? No, not really. Did he _need_to leave? Definitely. And the sooner, the better. There was nothing awaiting him in Kirkwall, nothing at all. He had lost the only thing worthy of his attention and thus he had no reason to linger there. Facing this painful fact, Samael exhaled loudly, checked out his appearance and entered the main hall.

oOo

The voices in the main chamber were fading as Hawke strode towards the empty armchair. Samael glanced around him just once, when he was looking for Hein who had disappeared right after they arrived, but the boy was still nowhere to be seen. Samael was worried for the lad who had been quiet for weeks now, but the boy insisted on the 'everything's all right' version so long, so Hawke decided not to pry and wait for the lad to talk to him on his own.

Hawke inhaled deeply before he turned to the silent crowd, forcing himself not to fidget and definitely not to smile, which was something he hadn't been doing lately anyway. He seated himself gracefully into his armchair and clasped the armrests just to be sure he wouldn't run away. A deathlike silence followed during which the water trickling down the walls was hearable.

Samael knew he had to consider carefully the way he was about to address the crowd for many of the present men were his treasured acquaintances or even something suspiciously close to friends. Hawke was genuinely surprised when he had spotted Varric Tethras among the members of the Merchants' Guild. Their eyes met briefly, but both of them jerked and looked someplace else the moment they realized they'd been looking at each other at the same time.

"Greetings," Hawke began, his voice easily carrying to the very back of the crowd. Samael had to admit he was quite proud of himself and the way he was able to say that one key word so casually, business-like, and slightly bored. Varric would have been proud of his little disciple. Samael cursed himself for thinking about his lost friend, again, and however much he wouldn't have admitted it, Varric's presence was soothing. "Thank you all for coming in such short notice. I think we need to discuss one certain situation." Samael cleared his throat and he almost sneered when he saw those tense faces staring at him in suspense. Varric was rubbing his chin while openly gaping at Hawke, as though he was musing if Samael really had that much resolve in him to actually _do_that.

"After thorough consideration, I've decided to sell, among other things, my lyrium trade contracts for Kirkwall." Samael made sure he had said that loudly, clearly and shortly, for he knew well what would follow after a moment of shock. It was quite boring to be right all the time, since it was like the whole chamber exploded a second later. The excited voices shouting over each other, outraged faces, indignant debates of those who had sprang up out of their seats, frantic offers from every corner. It was overwhelming. Hawke slowly sank down into his seat again, his legs crossed, his arms laid gracefully along the armrests, his face slightly cocked and thoughtful. Only one other person remained dispassionate - a dwarf playing with the thick golden chain hanging around his neck.

Once the voices lowered and the faces calmed down, Hawke stood up again and waited in silence for everyone to look at him. It didn't take long, yet Hawke felt beyond uncomfortable standing there like that, alone and watched by everyone.

"I've been forging alliances with every each one of you for years," Hawke gestured around him with both arms, "powerful alliances which were benefiting us all. You do know that. That's the reason why I'll make this opportunity for you as simple as I can." Hawke took a deep breath before he continued. He once again resisted the urge to sneer. It was liberating to get rid of the burden lyrium trade represented. Just one more chain holding him in Kirkwall cut off. Samael saw well they were about to swoop on him, querying if he had some favored candidate, prying about the price, smearing honey around his mouth and Maker knew what else. Hawke realized he had to cool down their excitement and put them in line again. His head lowered and his eyes were shooting fire in every direction he was looking during his speech.

"I don't care about your phoney mouths full of shit, chattering about how we've been just like a fucking big happy family and why you should be the one taking over the lyrium business. Honestly, I do not know nor do I care about who should run it once I'm gone. The best offer equals lyrium contracts. That's all I wanted to say. Thanks for coming." Hawke permitted himself a little sardonic sneer before he bowed at nobody particular, seated himself again comfortably in his armchair and reached for the goblet of red wine, completely oblivious to the mayhem around him. His guards made sure nobody would get too close to him, so he had time to whirl his wine goblet and think about what would happen next.

"I like his style," a hooded person laughed shortly and glanced at Hein who looked unhealthy pale. The two of them were standing on a gallery, partially hidden from the crowd behind the monstrous stone column. "I have to admit I now fully understand your lack of endeavour, Alejandro," the Crow leaned down and searched the lad's blank face thoroughly. "So which is it gonna be, hm? Your family or this exquisite specimen of manhood and debauchery?" For unknown reasons, Zevran was growing more nervous with every minute he had spent at that smelly place. He felt _almost _sorry for the young boy who would have to live with a thought he let his whole family die for something he could have prevented. The other possibility was to get killed during his attempt to take down Hawke, which was rather unlikely to happen.

"The Guild Master has summoned me back to Antiva, Alejandro. You know what will happen if the contract isn't finished by the time I'm back, right?" Zevran spun the boy around and forced him to look down at Hawke who had been listening to one of his minions for a minute, then he waved his hand in a negligent way, sending the thug away.

"I'll kill him," Hein rasped; his voice almost inhuman, his eyes rabid when he turned back to the Crow. "Then I'll kill you for making me do this," he spluttered out, glaring at the handsome elf who was amused indeed by this hollow threat.

"That would be quite a shame, yes?" Zevran countered with an overweening remark, but the sneer froze on his lips this time. Just for a tiny moment, for a hundredth of a second, he thought he had glimpse something, somebody standing on the opposite side of the gallery. Somebody from the proud Crow's past; the only Crow's business unfinished. Shaking his head, Zevran drove away the heart-rending memory of the one he had loved once. He slowly headed for a way out of the gallery, yet he glanced back at the stiff boy, regaining his usual smooth self once more.

"Just for your information, Alejandro, your dear soon-deceased master might want to know there's a Templar mob swarming through these tunnels at this very moment, searching for this place. I dare guess they'll find it soon enough," Zevran's crafty eyes flew over the scene downstairs, stopping for a moment at the motionless silhouette of the Champion. Something was telling Zevran that this was not the last time he had seen his face.

oOo

Samael excused himself from the main hall after he had pointed out the envelopes with written offers were supposed to be delivered by a third person straight to Hawke estate. Then he slipped into his small room again, heading straight to the massive cabinet. A good drink has many uses indeed, but right now Hawke needed to calm down and absorb the fact he really had done it. The wheels were in motion, the dice had been thrown. His already substantial wealth would grow even more once the lyrium contracts were sold and it would enable him to start a new life in Fereldan. Hell – everywhere he would like! He could hire a small crew and test Charlie's cockleshell. He could visit Rivain, roam through Seheron wilderness, taste Anderfels cuisine, fuck some Orlesian dames - pretty much whatever he'd want. Only _she_wouldn't be with him. A small, but significant detail.

A soft knock on the door ripped Hawke out of his frenzied musing.

"Enter," he mumbled after a moment, massaging his temples.

"Master," Hein walked a few steps inside and glanced at Hawke who was waiting for an explanation for this intrusion. Samael did notice Hein wasn't able to look into his eyes for long since he downcast his eyes with pure dismay within them. "Master, a Qunari and Messere Tethras are asking for an audience. Shall I let them in?"

"I am no Qunari, basra," an unfamiliar voice growled behind the cracked open door. Samael had to smile against his will since this simple statement reminded him of something.

"Tell Tethras I'm busy," Samael uttered loudly enough and crossed the room to meet the behemoth from Seheron, graciously bidding him enter.

"Master…" Hein wanted to say something else, but Hawke was much more curious about the not-Qunari being right now.

"Later," Samael interrupted the boy without looking at him. Hein's shoulders slumped and the boy left the room promptly.

"My name is Maraas," the giant spoke when Hawke remained silent. "I am not Qunari and I am not Tal-Vashoth either. I gave myself this name because it means nothing in my tongue. I come to you so we would have a purpose in this world once more." Maraas' simple words were hanging in the frowsty air while Hawke's eyebrows were growing higher and higher as he was contemplating this unexpected offer.

"Translated into my tongue, you wish to serve me?" Samael sat down and gestured towards the other armchair. Maraas' deep black eyes followed Hawke's hand, but he decided to ignore the polite gesture. Or he simply didn't understand it.

"Yes," the giant took his time before popping out this single word of agreement.

"What did you mean by that 'we would have a purpose'? There are more of you?" Hawke seemed genuinely intrigued by the thought about a bunch of Kossith warriors at his whim. "How do I know you're not someone's puppet, sent to infiltrate my business, kill me or something?" Hawke leaned back in his seat and folded his arms on chest.

"You don't," Maraas countered with a quick reply this time. He raised his brawny arm, so Hawke could see two bags the giant had been holding the whole time. A big jute bag with dark dried stain at the bottom and black duffel bag Hawke had been using for lyrium consignment for years. Maraas tossed them both casually on the table in front of Hawke and Samael's nostrils were filled immediately with that heinously sweet, unmistakable odour of decomposition. He didn't even have to look inside the jute bag to know what was inside. More like whose remains were inside.

"Yesterday night we've stumbled over two Templars who killed your courier and confiscated the lyrium. I killed them and took the lyrium instead. We've proven our loyalty. Now give us a purpose." Not even a tinniest muscle moved on the Maraas' body when he made this crystal clear statement. Alas, crystal clear just for him; definitely not for Hawke who peered inside of the both bags, making sure their content matched Maraas' narration.

A quiet triple knock resounded on the door before Samael had a chance to react.

"What now?" he shouted in disgruntlement. The door opened, slowly, hesitant, while a motionless, hooded silhouette appeared behind it. Hawke's lips resisted whispering a certain name and just for a moment he wasn't able to move or talk. "Where can I find you?" Hawke turned finally back to Maraas in pretended repose.

"The Vat and Fiddle Inn, Lowtown," Maraas replied quietly, his eyes traveling between Hawke and the newcomer.

"I'm interested. I'll meet you there then. Now get lost, Maraas." Samael didn't bother looking at the giant this time since his eyes were focused on the waiting silhouette on his doorstep.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Keeper?" Hawke entered the long silence when Maraas left and it was just Samael and the newcomer in the room right now. Merrill pulled down a hood of her ink blue shroud, revealing her face to Hawke. Samael noticed her prominent cheekbones, that deepening wrinkle between her eyebrows which wasn't there last time he had seen her and a fading scar winding through her forehead, crossing her eye and disappearing on her cheek. It really was Merrill, yet it wasn't completely her. She looked different and it wasn't just her solemn, serious face which worried Hawke. It was something else, rooted deep in her once pellucid eyes. Samael's acerbic greeting obviously didn't help.

"I know you own the silverite mine in the Sundermount caves, Hawke. You haven't started extraction yet and I came to learn your intentions regarding the mine." Merrill's face and words were completely colorless.

"Ah, business then." Hawke's eyes darkened and he set an empty glass of whiskey on the table in vigour, taking an eagle quill in his hand instead. "Surprisingly, I have had more important things to do lately than thinking about defiling a sacred place of your precious people, Merrill," he shot an annoyed glare at her for even bringing this up. The Keeper said nothing to his outburst. She just strolled in front of the table, her hand disappearing into her shroud and when it showed up again, Merrill was holding the blood-stained handkerchief with Amell crest embroidered on it – the very same piece of fabric Hawke had left behind at Sundermount after his encounter with an assassin. Merrill watched her hand for a while before she dropped the dirty piece of fabric on the table.

Now the incriminating handkerchief lay on the table between the two of them like a silent witness of Hawke's incognito night visits at the Dalish camp. Samael knew he should have gulped his vanity, stayed hidden in shadows like a nameless guardian, but he just couldn't. Now he would have to admit he was there, Merrill would demand an explanation no doubt, maybe she would tell him to stay away from her, maybe she would mock him. And that elf, Veryan or what was his name, no doubt told her he had seen a human male with long black hair and tattooed face in the camp that night. _Yeah, whatever,_Hawke thought to himself. He would be far away from Merrill and her disturbing influence in a few weeks.

A snow-white shoulder peering from beneath the cloak interrupted Hawke's scattered thoughts. The ink blue cloak rustling on the cold moist stone floor left Hawke dumbfounded. What just had happened? Merrill simply stood in front of him in all her beauty, naked, just like her crazy Creators or whoever, whatever had created her. The quill Samael had been nervously playing with fell out of his hand.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, Merrill?" Hawke's eyes narrowed as he tried to figure out what was going on. It was quite a challenge to keep looking into her eyes and nothing else. But Merrill simply stood there, motionless, wordless, her eyes slowly filling with tears. She knew the tears would roll down her cheeks if she blinked, so she tried not to.

"You were at Sundermount," she finally stated the obvious, looking at Hawke and the handkerchief in quick turns. Samael stood up unwillingly instead of an answer. "I thought you don't care anymore, but… I wasn't sure… If… But I need to know…" Merrill rambled with her voice trembling. She lost track of what was she trying to accomplish there and, ashamed, turned away from Hawke, clenching her pulsating head. The thoughts were wildly swirling through Samael's head. It was kind of dead-end situation.

_If I got it right, she came here to find out if I still want her, still need her. And, damn it, she couldn't have just asked! She had to pull this nasty trick on me, knowing I wouldn't be able to lie to her. Not like this. Not when she stands there, naked, vulnerable. I should just throw her out for her own sake! Mine too, but that's not the point. She has no right to march in here like this! She has no right to make any inquiries. And she has definitely no right to look so… beautifully broken. So… perfect. Damn it!_

Raking his hands through his long hair, Samael walked around the table, hesitant about what should he do. Merrill shivered when she felt a warm hand slowly caressing her back, making its way up to her slender nape. Hawke picked up the shroud lying on the floor and threw it gently over her shoulders, turning her back to him in the process, although she didn't seem to be able to look at him.

"I miss you too." Finally. Finally was Samael able to say out loud for both of them what they'd been feeling ever since their dissension at Sundermount. Merrill looked up in surprise at this unexpected confession, cautiously searching Hawke's grim face. The angles of his face relaxed as he watched her, the lines smoothed out slowly. He became again the young beautiful man he had been once; not burdened by death he had sown around him nor broken over the way the life had been treating him. It was great comfort for Merrill to see him like this; to see that innocence still slumbering under his hard exterior.

It was Merrill who took Samael into her thin arms, offering him her lips while her eyes were begging him to forget just for a minute his silly pride. Enthralled, Hawke leaned down, brushing his lips across Merrill's in a feather-like touch. They made it to an armchair without breaking the kiss. Samael practically fell into it while Merrill straddled him, impatiently devouring his mouth again with an insistent kiss. Merrill's shroud was coiled around her waist now, forgotten, as she teased Hawke with her breasts, then pressed herself against him to kiss him passionately. It occurred to Samael unbelievably slowly that he had a naked marvelous woman on his lap and the whole scene was even more appealing since Hawke was fully dressed while she simply wasn't at all.

Merrill stretched in all her glory, arching her back while Samael leaned forward and his insatiable mouth found a hard little pink nipple, licking and sucking it as she liked. Merrill groaned in pleasure and writhed which was quite a delight on Hawke's lap.

An urgent hammering on the door ruined the atmosphere completely.

Samael snorted and rolled his eyes in torment, trying to focus on anything else but his hand holding the heavy softness of a breast and Merrill's lips nibbling their way to his ear.

"Hawke, we've got a problem." This simple, yet grave statement shouted through the door ruined what was left of the steamy moment.

"Don't…" Hawke breathed out into Merrill's ear when she tried to roll down of his lap. Samael pulled her shroud up again, so it would cover her properly, before he let Hein in.

"The Templars are about to break through the door, Master," Hein's face remained calm, but his eyes told Hawke how scared the boy was. Not taking his eyes off Merrill Samael considered the situation. He was no fool and he knew all too well Meredith wouldn't give up so easily, but he thought this was all she could come up with. Thus he had made sure there would be no documents regarding his business, no incriminating things or people if Meredith decided to raid Hawke's business meetings or his estate.

"Please see our guests in the main hall out of here through the hidden passage I've shown you before, Rabbit. Tell my men to hide at the gallery, be quiet up there wait for a signal." Hawke's voice sounded tranquilly like there was no group of warped Templars, eager to search this place and make hell out of Hawke's life.

"What about me?" Hein peeped and kept staring at Merrill as though he wasn't sure if there really was somebody sitting on Hawke's lap or not.

"Open the door for them, will you?" Samael laughed mirthlessly and neatened Merrill's cloak on her back. The lad disappeared with a nod.

"Templars…" Merrill's eyes were widened when she broke out of Samael's hold. "Should I leave?" she asked in haste, pulling the cloak closer to her body.

"No." Samael sounded absolutely unconcerned.

"But —" Merrill quivered because of the noise behind the closed door since Hein had obviously let the Templars in and they were about to raze this place.

"I'll protect you," Samael whispered to her when he reached her, handing her the Keeper's staff she had put in the corner. Merrill's coy smile told him that her whole trip to Kirkwall Undercity was worth it if only to hear that single sentence from Hawke. Samael opened the door before the Templars could break it down and strolled in the middle of main hall with Merrill by his side.

The Templars halted and glanced at their leader for orders. Hawke's willingness to talk was obvious and they'd expected anything but Hawke who was willing to do anything.

"I trust you have a warrant as an excuse to barge in like this, Cullen?" Hawke slowly drew aside his cloak so he would be able to draw weapons quickly if needed.

"Serah Hawke, Keeper," Cullen mumbled his greeting and watched Hawke with a poorly hidden disquiet. He held his right hand holding the warrant towards Hawke instead of an answer.

"Lovely." Hawke's eyes flew over the parchment carrying the Templar insignia. Merrill's hand slipped under Samael's cloak and Hawke realized it was trembling. "You may proceed, Cullen," Hawke scoffed and granted the nervous Templar a cold gaze. The Templars then thoroughly searched the main chamber, Hawke's small study and they were returning back to Cullen one by one with their empty hands and frustrated faces.

"May I ask you to get your polished asses out of my property now?" Samael uttered nonchalantly, but he was well aware the circle of Templars around them was closing in.

"I'm afraid I have to ask the Dalish Keeper to come with us." Cullen's voice couldn't be more tense for he knew this whole situation was about to turn into bloodshed.

"I don't think so," Samael replied immediately and smiled, tilting his head up. Cullen followed his gaze and thus he was able to see the archers as they were emerging one by one on the gallery above their heads. Perfect firing position; the Templars would be dead before even drawing their swords.

"Hawke!" Cullen raised his hands and scowled at the self-proclaimed king of scoundrels. "There's an unwritten agreement between the Dalish and Kirkwall Templars. They are supposed to stay out of the city and we will leave them be. The Keeper broke the rules, she's coming with us," Cullen really tried his best, but he knew Hawke wouldn't hesitate to nod at his men to shoot them all.

"I suggest running back to your Mistress, Cullen. Be a nice little Templar and pass my regards on to her. Tell her she can kiss my Fereldan ass." Samael was slowly walking towards the Knight-Lieutenant during his cynical speech which drew a guffawing from his men at the gallery.

"You're making a mistake, Serah Hawke," Cullen stepped forward, but there was no grudge in his words – more like a well-meant warning which left Hawke wondering for a moment. "You're playing with fire," Cullen made another step forward, "and you're about to get burned," he leaned forward and whispered the last part right into Hawke's ear. Samael shuddered against his will. There was some odd undertone in Cullen's voice as though he knew something Hawke did not.

"Save your words for a report for Meredith, Templar," Samael retorted and gestured towards the way out.

"The Maker's mills grind slowly, but they grind exceeding fine, Serah Hawke. Open your eyes before it's too late," Cullen bowed gracefully and headed in the suggested direction.

"Amen," Samael snarled with his hand clasping the hilt of his sword. Even the tiny cold hand slipping into his warm palm couldn't smother the growing feeling inside of him that something bad was about to happen. Very, very bad.

oOo

"So…" Hawke halted on the Hightown courtyard right after they had emerged from the fetid Kirkwall sewers.

"So…" Merrill strolled in front of Hawke and looked up at him. There was everything written in her face, everything what had happened and what was she feeling. Frisson from the long lost lover's touch, her loneliness, residual fear from the Templars, hope and doubt about what would happen in the future.

"Merrill," Hawke took her hand rather shyly and traced her scar gently with his other hand, "who did this to you?" he asked with his eyes narrowed in anger.

"Oh… that's nothing," she peeped and took his exploring hand into hers. "Just… a little misunderstanding with my First," she uttered when she saw Hawke wouldn't leave this be.

"Oh, so you now like have your own First?" Samael blinked in surprise and cocked his head in thought. "Well, of course you do. You're a Keeper after all," he whispered more to himself than to her. Neither of them spoke after Hawke's statement while Hein loitered not far from them, kicking the wall thoughtlessly.

"You probably want to —" Hawke blurted out, searching the sky.

"I really should —" Merrill started at the same time and giggled nervously when they both shut up. "I have to return to my people, Samael," she whispered finally and let go of him.

"Right." Hawke made a hesitant step backwards from her, then turned around and started striding away with downcast eyes.

"Hawke!" Merrill's soft shout stopped him and he turned almost involuntarily back to the Siren who was calling him with her sweet voice. They were looking in silence at each other for a minute, their lips slowly curling into coy smiles. There was no need to say anything.

oOo

A rider on common horse with a mabari raced through darkening landscape five hours later. A thunderstorm was threatening and the clouds were dark overhead, but the rider didn't seem to care. He didn't even slowed down when the big warm drops of rain started falling down and the heavy air crackling with electricity was choking him.

One scene was replying relentlessly in Hawke's head as he rode through the twilight, heeling the poor beast beyond its limits. Hein came to talk to him that evening, but before he got to the point, Ser Thrask dashed inside the Hawke estate, barely catching breath. His frantic words started making sense to Samael just after a few strong drinks.

Meredith had initiated an Exalted March against the Champion of Kirkwall.

Samael continued pacing while listening to Thrask, clenching his head in despair several times and kicking things in his way with frustrated wordless shouts. But despairing wouldn't help Hawke. Now it was just a matter of outwitting Meredith long enough to crush her devious plans before they would crush Hawke.

The orders were given, the Templar was thanked, and one of Hawke's horses was saddled since Occela was at the farrier's.

"Don't go by yourself, please take me with you," Hein pleaded with stubbornness of his own.

"Take care of the scrolls, Rabbit. Please, do it for me if not for my friends. People I… like." Samael placed hastily a peck on the lad's forehead before he mounted the horse, whistling at Charon to come along.

Here he was, riding in an insane tempo although he realized the horse would drop dead at any second if he kept this pace up. Hawke hoped, believed in blind faith, that Hein would warn all of his friends in time. Only two persons would remain unaware of Meredith's treacherous net, but Hawke was about to warn them personally. He hadn't seen Malcolm ever since he kicked him out of his estate, but he did know where he was, oh yes. It seemed unbearable not to know where was the person claiming to be his father. When Samael halted the horse by the lakes near Bone Pit he was drenched to his bones and quivering in both cold and adrenaline.

"Ichaboooood!" he cried out from the top of his lungs. Long, desperate shout sounding like a roar of a wounded raptor. "Ichabooood!" Hawke whirled around desperately, searching the vicinity through the thick veil of rain.

Malcolm jerked in his humble shack standing on the lake bank. He would recognize this voice everywhere and anytime. He bolted out of his dwelling, searching for his son in alarm. Samael came. His son really came here, he came for him.

"Ichaboooood!" Samael's upset voice resonated above the turbulent lake surface and Malcolm realized he must have been closing in. "Damn it, Ichabod, where the fuck are you?" Hawke bent down at the waist, catching breath.

"Stop shouting, lad. You'll chase away my dinner," a familiar voice grumbled right after Samael's back. As he was bent down, Hawke looked behind him and he could breathe again suddenly. He got here first. That was all that mattered. His father was alive and safe, at least for now.

"We need to get you out of here, Ichabod," Samael slowly turned around and blinked to get the rain streaming down his face off his eyes.

"Do we…" Sneering, Malcolm folded his arms on chest and took a wide stance. "I take it that this isn't a return of a prodigal son, is it?" Malcolm cackled and watched his son glaring at him.

"I am… not… your… son!" Samael sizzled through his set jaw.

"So what are you doing here then?" Malcolm asked in a pretended innocent amazement.

"I'm here because," Hawke waved his arms in impatience; "because of…" he tried to explain again, unsuccessfully.

"Well, do continue, you'll figure it out eventually, son," Malcolm tilted his head backwards with laughter and raked through his drenched long dark grey hair.

"Stop calling me that!" Just like that Samael stood right in front of his father, his fists clenched, and his voice trembling in blatant wrath.

"Afraid of the truth, are we?" Malcolm mocked the young fuming man.

"Fuck you, Ichabod!" Samael's temper exploded and he took Malcolm down with a perfect right hook.

"Ugh," Malcolm squirmed in the wet sand, groping his sore chin, "so much for the loving Hawke reunion then," he chuckled maliciously. He was silenced with a fierce kick turning him on his back. "Oh, fuck, yes!" he bellowed, guffawing with insanity while clenching his hurting ribs. "Let it out, son! Shout! Kick! Destroy me! Stay furious! Keep hold to that glorious rage! Hang on tight, my son, because it's the final fig leaf!" Malcolm all but yelled at his son who stood above his body, panting and shaking.

"What was the last thing I told you, hm? I can't hear you down here, my boy, you have to say it out loud, you wise guy!" Malcolm sat down with a gasp of pain while eyeing up his son. "What did I say to you, huh? Or did you forget just I like wanted to?"

"You told me to run." Samael shook his head while gaping at his father in disbelief. "You told me to run," he repeated, his voice growing stronger with hysteric undertones. "You explicitly said to a young vulnerable child to abandon his own father and leave him to rot! You fucker! I hate you! I hate your fucking guts!" Samael pulled up the old man, mercilessly shaking his perverted soul out of him.

"That makes the two of us," Malcolm breathed out, but his voice died away in the howling storm.

"You're dead, all right?" Samael roared right into his father's face. "You died in those damned gorges years ago, do you hear me?" Samael's clouded mind was reaching for one last attempt to deny the fact his father was standing right in front of him – alive.

"You can repeat that as many times as you like, but that would not make it so," Malcolm shook his head mildly and reached for his son, but he twitched and escaped from Malcolm's reach. They were standing on the bend of a raging lake facing each other, estimating each other and both breathing heavily when ominous clapping of gloved hands disturbed them.

"My, my… such a lovely family reunion." Hawke's eyes widened at that unctuous quiet voice. "Oh, Maker, what a boor I am. My name is Ser Alrik and these are my men." Templars were emerging from the darkness without a sound; the drops of rain tinkling on their helmets in relentless staccato. Charon was wise enough not to interfere during his master's quarrel with that old stinking man, but now he crept in front of Hawke with his teeth bare.

"Fuck…" Almost inaudible gasp of surprise escaped Malcolm's mouth.

"Shit…" Samael commented the situation. Yes. They were screwed.

"Well, you really are your father's son, aren't you?" The Templar leader made an overconfident step towards the younger Hawke. He reminded Samael of a reptile; cold, smooth and with a smile that chilled his very core. And those eyes; those cold bright blue eyes piercing him through like an icicle dagger. Two men and a war hound against the whole squadron of Templars, which meant approximately forty people.

Samael didn't move nor did he make a sound. Swords and nocked arrows aimed at them were flashing in the lightings crossing the skies. Time seemed to stop. Hawke's right hand then flashed out, ripping his dagger out of its sheathe.

"Fire," Alrik's lazy voice commanded into silence interrupted only by thunder. Samael looked down and saw his left hand clenching the shaft of an arrow protruding from his stomach.

"ARGH!" Malcolm unleashed along with that inhuman scream a great pulse of venomously green light which swept the nearest Templars off their feet. Samael remained oddly passive about what was going on around him. He found himself kneeling in the sand and wondering if he was seeing triple or there really were three arrows stuck in his torso right now. Familiar silver fur was shredding everything which came too close to its master, but it was an uneven battle. Samael's veiled mind noticed vaguely his father falling down and disappearing under the Templars' armor, but with another mighty spell Malcolm was able to push them away from him while he scrambled to his feet and rushed to his son. Samael looked up in surprise when somebody started pulling him up on his numb feet and he wished that somebody would stop doing that.

Countless pairs of armored hands grasped Malcolm Hawke by anything they could reach; tearing him apart from his son who kept kneeling in the mud and sand with his head lowered and drenched hair stuck to his skull. Samael had missed his father's last attempt to free himself, which was baffled when a dozen of Templars nodded at each other and started enchanting the Silence formula. Stricken by the immense power the Templars possessed against mages, just half-conscious and completely drained, Malcolm Hawke glanced at his son for the last time before he was dragged away.

A fierce kick between his shoulder blades sent Samael flying forward and landing on his side while one of the arrows broke and Hawke responded with a long howl of pain so intense it bordered with agony. Somebody laughed nearby. Then he was kicked on his back, so he was staring unseeingly at the starless sky. The last drops of rain caressed his face, mixing with the tears of powerlessness. Distant voices resounded in Hawke's ears while he was aware of every breath he took.

"— just make sure nobody slips out of our trap, yo."

"I worry about Ser Madeleine's men. I don't think they will capture that tattooed elf, at least not alive." A rusty voice laughed dryly.

"What about this one, yo? I thought we were meant to kill him and —"

"Moron! Did you even read the order? Take him down alive, injure him if necessary, but no killing."

"Why no killing, yo? I say cut him down while we can! Meredith needs him for something?"

"That's not for us to judge, dumbass, but —"

"Hey, you two, we're leaving!" A distant voice, a cold voice Samael would have never forgotten, ended that petty row.

"As for you, little Hawke, I bid you happy crawling for help," Ser Alrik whispered into Samael's ear and pressed his gloved index finger into his forehead. "And here's just a little something for you, so you wouldn't forgot this rather pleasant encounter." Alrik stood up, brushed his knees neatly before he pushed Hawke's left hand on a rock with his heavy boot, kicking it left and right as long until it was perfectly balanced on it. Samael had no idea the Templars fell silent one by one at the sight of the cruelty of their leader. They simply turned their backs at Hawke and Alrik and left the lakes just like the Order directed them.

Alrik smiled and stomped on Samael's limp hand with his full weight and strength. Hawke's body arched into an agonizing pose. He could feel the burning sensation of each nerve that was severed in skin and muscle. The bones were shattered, piercing what was left of his hand and protruding through the skin. He could sense the blood from the crushed veins slowly filling his hand and pouring out into the sand. Alrik's smile was growing even broader as he observed the agony he had inflicted upon a living being.

Samael couldn't recognize that awful voice full of unbearable pain which echoed again and again in his ears. The voice shouted, pleaded, bawled, begged, threatened, screamed for mercy and found it. A kind veil of unconsciousness sent Hawke's tormented mind and battered senses into oblivion.


	5. Chapter 5

_One, two, Maric's run through_

_Three, four, the kingdom's at war_

_Eight, nine and now you die_

Hawke stood on a vast glade in bloom. He knew this place. He recognized the four old trees growing in the middle of a glade. He recognized the large cottage he had called home once. Children were scurrying around him, but they were just shadows, just a fleeting memory of himself and his siblings playing a silly game. Samael tried to follow the children, but they just seemed to be always a few steps ahead of him. Their innocent laughter died away and Samael found himself standing above their graves. Bethany, Carver, Samael. Hawke exhaled in unspeakable pain and the whole scene shifted.

Once again he was running through the darkening gorges, looking for something he couldn't have possibly found; ever. His father's blood was on his hands. The path turned left and only now Samael realized it was a dead end. Something pale and dimly glowing in dark awaited him there. It was a white mabari licking its paw and not paying attention to anything else but the paw. The light emanating from the fur became dazzling and Samael shielded his eyes with a palm. When the light went out, Samael realized he was standing upon a precipice of a bottomless abyss.

"Jump," ordered a voice coming from his innermost sanctum. And he did.

When Samael looked down his legs were dissipating in thick shreds of mist slowly billowing above the ground. He slowly turned around, examining the vicinity, but there simply was nothing to be seen. Nothing but that weird fluffy mist as far as he could see. Nothing but that endless emptiness ringing in his ears.

A tall, ugly mirror standing on three golden talons appeared. Hawke was drawn to it against his better judgment.

"What is this foul game…?" he mumbled when the blind mirror resisted reflecting his silhouette. "What foul tricks are you playing with me?" he asked the mirror and touched its crazed surface. Whispers and distant giggling around Hawke made him to whirl around, but only his solitude yawned at him. "Is there anybody?" he shouted, but his voice sounded strange to him. "What do I fear?" he whispered to himself, wrapping his bare arms around him although he wasn't cold. "There's nobody here. Nobody but me. Do I fear myself? Or perhaps I fear _for _myself?" he kept questioning himself while staring into the mirror.

"Is there a murderer?" he asked the mirror.

"No," he answered his own question.

"Yes! I am!" he retorted a second later. "Should I fear _myself_ then? Where am I anyway?"

"You should be more worried about _why _are you here," a serene voice entered Hawke's soliloquy. He slowly turned at that quiet, reasonable voice.

"Mother?" he asked in disbelief.

"Yes, my son," the ethereal silhouette strolled closer. "Don't fear me, my child," she stroked Samael's cheek in a loving gesture before she danced a few steps away.

"What am I doing here?" Samael asked in a small voice.

"You chose to be here, my son. What else?" Leandra replied and an unconcerned smile settled on her face.

"Now did I?" he muttered in disquiet and tried to touch his mother, but she dodged his hand.

"Aren't they beautiful?" Leandra asked with admiration and raised an eyebrow at her son when Samael clearly didn't understand her remark. He looked over his shoulder, then slowly turned to the new scene. A bed, a huge bed. Naked bodies intertwined together among the scattered pillows. Soft moans, scratched back, cigars and liquor. Samael wasn't surprised when Fawn emerged from the breathing bundle of heated skin, disheveled hair and hushed groans.

"I wondered when you'd get here," Fawn neatened his hair and patted the bed while his shark eyes flashed with provocation. "'Tis a most pleasant way to die - to expire of a surfeit of uncontrollable licentiousness and profane pleasures, don't you think?" he laughed a cathartic laugh. Greedy arms started snaking around Fawn's gorgeous body, inviting him back to bed.

"Die?" Hawke shook his head, ignoring Isabela who seductively blinked at him from behind Fawn's back. "Why do you speak of death, Hero of Fereldan?" he asked quietly and made a single step towards the bed.

"Samael," Fawn disengaged from his pleasant activities and gave Hawke an amused glance, "you are dying," he chuckled and continued fondling Bela's nipple.

"C'mon, Hawke," somebody laughed heartily at Samael's shocked face. "We all saw it coming," Varric leaned nonchalantly on the bed frame and slapped away naughty hands that were covetous of his chest hair.

"I didn't… I don't want to…" Hawke's desperate voice trailed off.

"Hush, my baby," Leandra crooned and turned the limp Samael back to the mirror. "They are coming," she whispered into his ear. Spectral hooded silhouettes started emerging from the fluid mirror surface, one by one, making a neat silent row in front of awestricken Hawke. "Go ahead," Leandra batted her eyelashes at Samael and pushed him gently forward. Samael's hand trembled as he pulled down a hood of the nearest standing ghost of his past.

"Meeran!" he breathed out and staggered back from the person he had killed years ago. If he recalled well, he had cut off Meeran's head. This gruesome memory was confirmed since Meeran's neck was adorned with crude stitches.

The Red Iron's erstwhile leader grinned viciously at the one who had taken his life from him. It was like some kind of signal since all ghosts pulled down their hoods and turned their bloodless faces towards their executioner. Feynriel, a young Templar woman with slashed throat and long blond hair, Charlie the Crab Claw, the Crow Sven Sieggbard, Haydée, Raen Morrell, the Arishok, Petrice and others were still walking through the mirror, waiting in silence for Samael to look at them.

Hawke's hands soared up, clenching his head in despair. The worst part was when he wasn't able to even recognize many faces; faces of people who had died either by his hand or as a result of his actions.

"Murderer… Traitor… Thief…" ghosts started hissing at him, condemning him for what he had done to them.

"Don't pay attention to those fools, Hawke," Fawn's lazy voice ripped Samael out of this waking horror. "Conscience is but a word that cowards us, devised at first to keep the strong in awe," he rounded up his explanation and tossed the woman squirming on his lap away. "You and me know better, right?" he approached the shaking Hawke and gathered him into his soothing arms. "What did you say the Revered Mother in Lothering, hm? Do you remember, my friend?" he asked Samael when he calmed down.

"How do you —" Hawke pointed out the obvious discrepancy.

"It doesn't matter how do I know. I just do," Fawn sneered and let go of him.

"Well, I was at my first and also last shrift. I told her everything," Hawke breathed out and shook his head like the memory lingered. "Everything," he repeated and glanced at Mahariel. "It was liberating," he continued.

"And what did she say?" Fawn asked with a crafty smug on his face.

"She said…" Hawke's voice cracked. "She abhorred me. She hated me. She ordered me to repent for my sins."

"And what did you do?" Fawn laughed and stroked Hawke's chest.

"When she said 'repent', I said I didn't know what she meant," Hawke's lips tweaked into merciless grimace. "I killed her before we left Lothering. I couldn't risk her knowing about me."

"Chantry, right…" Fawn rolled his eyes, shamelessly pawing Hawke now. "Always poking their noses where they're not supposed to."

"So how do I get out of here?" Hawke glanced around him, impatient to get out of that ghostly place.

"The ship," Varric gave him a hint and rolled his eyes like he couldn't fathom Hawke needed help with something _that _obvious. And a ship indeed flowed inaudibly through the mist and stopped right in front of Hawke who was once again speechless. A freaking ship. Right here in the middle of nowhere.

"Hello, ma vhenan. I was delayed. I apologize." Merrill's petite cold palms clutched Hawke's warm hand and she watched him as she lifted it to her lips and kissed it fondly. A ladder rattling down the ship sent Hawke back to his senses since he stared in rapture at the beautiful Dalish elf.

"Only one of you can enter the ship," Elthina peered down at them from the decks and awaited the one who was permitted to leave this place and go back to the world of the living.

"I'll go then," Hawke spoke into silence and let go of Merrill's hand.

"You'd leave me here, my love?" Merrill asked simply.

"Try to understand, Merrill. I have… I need… I must finish what I've started." Hawke's fingers stroked Merrill's lovely cheek. "If this means I have to do it without you, I can live with that."

"Vengeance?" Merrill looked up at him. "You'd sacrifice my life to it? And what about my people, Samael? What would they do without a Keeper?" she continued, but there was nothing but kind sorrow in her eyes.

"I…" Hawke glanced around him in uneasiness. "I'm sorry, Merrill. I love you, but —"

"But you love yourself more," Merrill finished the sentence for him. "Go then," she kissed him, savoring that one last kiss before his departure. Not knowing what else he should say or do, Hawke climbed up the ladder and went straight below decks. Hawke's eyes roamed around the little cabin and he gasped in surprise when he had spotted a silhouette sprawled on the cot. It was Merrill.

"I thought…" Samael shook his head, feeling utterly confused.

"You betrayed me down there." Merrill's voice was quiet and calm. She flipped over to her other side to face Hawke. "You could have sent me here instead, but you preferred yourself over me," she continued while watching him with those big doe eyes Samael had fallen in love with years ago.

"I know and I hate myself for doing it," Hawke whispered in return. "But I would have done it again," he finished his honest statement and wondered for a second why he had to hurt her like this. "So why are you here then? I thought only one of us could go," he asked again, impatient to know.

"I betrayed you too," was her proud answer. "I answered the same question and I chose myself over you."

"So we betrayed each other and yet we remain together…" Hawke's thoughtful voice dissipated as he sat down on the bed right next to Merrill whose arms slipped immediately around her man.

"Don't you understand, my love?" she smiled when he clasped her palm into both his. "It doesn't matter what we said. It's our deeds that define us. No matter what happens, we will always end up fighting side by side until the end," she sat up and cuddled by Hawke's side. She seemed content with how things were.

Everything was suddenly crystal clear for Samael. Now he knew for sure they deserved each other. No one better. No one worse. Just each other. They were destined to be together. Forever. And never.

oOo

Hawke's mind lingered between the worlds of consciousness and oblivion. The pain he had been experiencing for hours was beyond his limits and he had been repeatedly falling into troubled dreams only to wake up into gruesome reality. He tried to crawl to Ichabod's shack, but his tattered body wouldn't listen to that simple command.

The sunset at the lakes was beautiful. Hawke's eyes shot open in shock like for a hundredth time that day and he slowly realized the pain was fading and it was being replaced with something much worse. Every muscle within his body seemed to be asleep and the shattered left hand was turning dark blue. Two broken arrows still remained stuck in his body while the third one had only its sharp end still inside of him. Nobody knew where he went. Nobody was searching for him. His body was destroyed and his tormented soul was trapped within. The wave of panic made Samael gasping for air and squirming helplessly in the dry sand as his mind was relentlessly creating new images of what would have happened if he died there. Well, the Templars said they weren't supposed to kill him, but those morons obviously weren't able to follow even that simple order since Samael felt his life creeping out of him. He winced and fell into half-sleep, half-unconsciousness again.

"Stop it…" he murmured an hour later. His hoarse voice was barely audible through his dried lips and his body was about to give up this fight. A warm, huge and coarse something brushed his face again and Hawke groaned in frustration.

A neigh.

Hawke called upon his very last strength and opened one eye. The horse standing above him seemed huge. And strangely enough he was looking at him. Hawke blinked and tried to move his limbs one by one. He started breathing heavily when his whole left arm refused to do anything and it seemed to be simply dead. Just a long paralyzed something which wouldn't be even attached to his body if it wasn't stuck in a sleeve of his under tunic.

"Occela…" Hawke licked his chapped lips and his throat felt indeed like he had sand in there. "Apparently I am bound to be your eternal burden… my… friend…" he managed to whisper with long pauses. The horse clipped his ears before he fell to his knees, nudging Hawke since he was obviously falling asleep again.

The tears of pain and despair flowed down Hawke's cheeks as he finally managed to sit up after ten minutes of trying. His whole body and mind writhed in ultimate unwillingness to move, to keep breathing, to survive. Yet his right hand started slithering towards the silver mane which was supposed to help him on the horseback.

Hawke moaned when his hand clutching the mane relaxed against his will and he slowly collapsed back into the sand. His eyelids fluttered and then closed in acceptance of the inevitable.

oOo

Many things had changed since Merrill took up the Keeper's staff and not every Dalish elf approved of them. Time is the most powerful healer, though, and even the most relentless elves accepted Merrill when they saw for themselves their new Keeper cared about nothing but their welfare.

Merrill knew well she would have to do much harder if she wanted to gain their trust, but she deserved their respect nonetheless for her endeavour to keep them all fed, safe and satisfied. And she did her very best to prove them every day that she was worthy to be their Keeper, although it was difficult. The evenings were the worst part for Merrill; strolling around the camp as though it was a prison, disconnected, stolid and alone. Creators, so alone, like an elf surrounded by his whole clan could have been. When everything just seemed unbearable for Merrill, she put her First in charge and vanished into night shadows, prowling around Sundermount or staring at distant Kirkwall for hours.

Despite Merrill's eccentricity, the respect she had been building among her brethren was growing day by day until it was put to an insidious test one evening. Merrill was exhausted after that one particular day. The elves had been repairing damaged aravels all day after the last night storm, two half-dead apostates begged the Keeper for food and shelter and she also had to settle a quarrel between Master Ilen and his apprentice. The sky darkened during the late afternoon, threatening to rain again and the elves spontaneously gathered around the fire, glancing up into the skies with worries.

Veryan examined their Keeper and noticed she was nervously playing with her odd black ring again; just like many times during that day. It was same ring she refused to take off, ever. The Keeper's First frowned, but swallowed back his question and held a silver chalice with mead towards her instead. Absent-minded, Merrill took it, nodding her thanks. She closed her eyes and the voices of her brethren around her started merging into a persistent racket. She sighed when the ring twitched on her finger, sending shivers throughout her body. She moaned when that ominous cold wave reached her very core, stealing the heat of her blood from her.

Merrill didn't notice the elves fell silent after her almost inaudible groan and they were watching her; some of them were concerned, some of them suspicious.

"Keeper…?" Veryan dared approach the Keeper and she jerked when she felt the cold hand on her feverish skin. She wildly looked up at her First who was now gazing somewhere behind Merrill's wooden fretwork armchair.

Something stood in silence at the edge of dancing light coming from the fire. Merrill slowly rose from her seat and started slowly approaching the huge silhouette. Occela made a hesitant step forward and neighed when he spotted the one he had been seeking. The elves stared in rapture at the marvelous stallion which looked like made of silver night shadows and stars. Merrill's hand shyly reached for Occela and the elves gasped in surprise when she swung up on horseback and rode into the woods without a single word.

Veryan watched the Keeper with his eyes narrowed, shaking his head mildly when Merrill simply mounted the stallion and disappeared. The elf knew when the troubles were coming towards the Dalish clan and this was the case no doubt.

oOo

Somebody roughly shook Veryan in the middle of night.

"Keeper?" he asked in alarm when he recognized her petite figure standing above him.

"Come with me," she replied impatiently and walked out of her First's tent. Veryan scrambled up on his feet and followed her like a second shadow. Merrill's tent was lit up by several candles, but something entirely else snatched Veryan's attention. A human was lying on Merrill's cot; motionless, encrusted in dried blood, sand and dirt and with two broken arrows protruding out of his torso. When Veryan came closer he recognized the human he had seen the night an assassin tried to take down the Dalish Keeper.

"Remove his armor," a quiet plea came while Merrill was rummaging through one of her bags. Her moves were hasty, if not straight hysterical.

"But —" Veryan protested; his eyes set at the lifeless human face.

"Do as I say!" Merrill's quiet plea turned into spiteful command. She marched to her First, challenging him to defy her. Veryan set his jaw, grasped a knife and carefully slit Hawke's jerkin open, then the pantaloons, leaving him just in his smallclothes. He shuddered when Hawke's bruised body appeared beneath the shreds of leather. Each arrow wound was encircled with nasty dark purple spot. Veryan got a hold of himself again and lifted Hawke's left arm, his eyes widening when light landed on the shattered hand. He was convinced the arm would have to be cut off.

"His blood has been poisoned," he murmured, "infected and spoiled," he put the dark blue arm down gently. "I think this needs to be cut off," he gestured towards the badly wounded limb. "But I suppose it doesn't matter now. His spirit is striving to stand and his Maker's side and there's nothing we could —"

"Shut up and start healing, Veryan!" Merrill sizzled at her First and gulped the tears while her hands were frantically searching for potions, herbs and anything that could help right now.

"Merrill," Veryan approached the panting Keeper and placed a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. "He is barely alive and —"

"Well, _keep _him alive then," Merrill shook his hand off her. "I haven't chosen you as my First just because I liked you, Veryan," she added after a moment of silence and bolted out of her tent. Hushed curses in elvish were hearable from her aravel as she was searching for one last thing she needed. She returned to her tent, not daring look at Hawke as she checked the small table with potions, various herbal decoctions and lyrium flasks. Veryan's eyes were set at the staff Merrill held in her hand. A staff he had never seen before – a powerful staff, a corrupted staff of which crystals shone in gloom.

The both elves moved the cot with, as it turned out, an incredibly heavy human right to the center of a tent, kneeling by it each from one side. Their fingers hovering above the human's body, their eyes locked, the elves started channeling their healing abilities straight into Hawke's withering body. None of them spoke, none of them moved unless they reached for a flask of lyrium.

"It's not enough," Merrill let out a tormented groan. She stood up languidly, clenching her head. The lyrium, the treacherous lyrium was circulating in her veins, singing to her of power and damnation.

"We are far beyond the safe dose of lyrium. You do know that, I hope." Veryan didn't bother with standing up; he simply collapsed on his side, panting and nursing his pulsing temples.

"There are other possibilities," Merrill mocked his defeatism with a fanatical sneer on her face. Wordlessly, Veryan looked up at her, watching her breathlessly as she pulled out a long dagger. The blade twinkled in the light of candles and big hot drops of blood started falling on Samael's pale bluish skin.

Unfathomable gust of wind ruffled Veryan's long silver loose hair when Merrill grasped her staff and her own blood started coursing down along the drake scale pole, while Hawke's body arched up, glistening with bland red light. Intrigued, Veryan approached the cot and watched in amazement as Hawke's body literally drank the drops of blood, feeding on them, consuming them along with their mistress.

"Not… enough," Merrill ululated through her clenched teeth, throwing her head back as though in great pain. "Give me your hand," Merrill glanced wildly at her First, hesitant, like she expected Veryan to run away. But he just nodded, reaching his hand towards her in mute agreement. Merrill would never know why he decided to help her, but she was simply glad he did. It seemed only Veryan noticed a strange black annulet hanging on a silver chain around Hawke's neck, the very same ring the Keeper was wearing and just like her he obviously wasn't able to part with it.

oOo

The first thing Hawke noticed after awakening was the pillow. Oddly enough it smelled of humid dirt, herbs and rain.

"You've awoken then. Rather unexpected, I dare say," an unfamiliar voice interrupted Hawke's sluggish musing about the pillow.

"You again?" Samael groaned when he was able to swivel the head enough to see the elf sitting on a fur, reading. "Does this mean…?" Hawke gestured with his right hand around him and gulped. His mouth felt like a desert.

"Yes. You are at the Dalish camp, shemlen," Veryan confirmed the human's assumption and stood up. Hawke had a dozen other questions, but his gaze slipped at his bandaged arm. His breathing hitched as he realized he wasn't able to move the fingers.

"M-my hand…" he stammered, looking at the elf and his inanimate arm in turns.

"Calm down," Veryan's eyebrows knitted as he approached the tattooed human whose chest started heaving in panic.

"I can't feel it! What… Who… Maker…" Hawke's desperate voice went on and on while he was groping the left arm with his other hand.

"Calm down, shemlen," Veryan repeated slowly and placed a comforting hand on Samael's bare shoulder. He indeed felt sorry for the young warrior and the pure dismay within his eyes, but this commotion would help nobody. He sighed and reached for a colorless potion by the bed. "Drink it," he gently caught Hawke's hand fumbling for the arm and supported his head, so he could drink the sleeping draught.

Having no choice but to drink the fluid, Samael took it in obediently and a merciful veil of weariness enveloped him immediately. He felt his head being gently laid back on the pillow, then dark dreams devoured him entirely again.

"Hmm…" Veryan watched the sleeping human while rubbing his chin. "Let's check on our other patient," he muttered and left the Keeper's tent.

oOo

Hawke felt much better when he woke up second time. He tried rather tentatively moving his limbs and he exhaled in relief when he was able to move even the fingers on his left hand. The standing up was a challenge though, but he was both restless and relentless. His eyes glanced around the dim tent – bags with untied strings, empty lyrium bottles scattered around, a wooden mortar and several other things Hawke didn't even want to know what they were, including a long knife with dried blood on it.

Shaking his head to clear it up a bit, Samael swayed out of the tent, holding his bandaged left arm on chest for protection. He regretted leaving the tent a second later though, when he realized probably the whole clan was sitting by the fire, watching him and his uncertain pace. Samael noticed well their glaring and hushed comments, but he didn't care. His eyes were seeking only one person, but she was nowhere to be seen.

"Come and sit here, shem," a lanky elven woman hastily approached Hawke and led him to an empty seat among the elves. Before he knew it, Samael was seated with a bowl with hot soup in his palms. He cast his eyes down along with his mumbled thanks, but the silence around him was more than uncomfortable. Veryan slowly strolled towards the fire from a far corner of the camp, nodding at the human like he was supposed to follow him.

"Where is she?" Samael asked the only question that mattered to him right now and he felt like punching the taciturn elf who took his time before replying.

"The Keeper asked me to escort you up the path leading to Sundermount as soon as you're able to walk and —" Veryan started explaining, but he was rudely interrupted.

"I'm perfectly capable of walking, as you can see. Thanks for asking," Hawke snapped and started stumbling up the path, leaning on the trees occasionally. Veryan just shook his head about the foolish young human, but he did follow him to look after him just as he was ordered to. The path started meandering and just like that, Merrill stood right in front of Hawke, cold, calm and proud.

"Leave us," the Keeper turned to her First with a terse order. Veryan bowed and started descending down the path again, not a glance behind him. Merrill waited patiently for her First to disappear, only then she threw herself into Hawke's arms with a choked sob, cupping his face with her palms. If Samael expected anything this certainly wasn't it. Merrill was shaking uncontrollably within his embrace, clenching his borrowed under tunic desperately. And he held her tight since she seemed to have lost all ability to stand.

An almost inaudible hiss of pain escaped Hawke's lips as much as he tried to suppress the pain coming from his wounds. Merrill pulled back, realizing she was supposed to be the strong one right now.

"How…" Samael shook his head, watching his elf with curiosity.

"Occela came for me," Merrill replied, blinking frantically to dissolve the tears standing in her eyes. "We found you at the lakes. You looked like —" Merrill's voice cracked. "I thought I was too late," she peeped after a moment. Then she coughed, trying to calm down and remember there were important things to discuss right now. "Hawke, I picked up a few things lying around you or in that tumbledown shack," she handed him a greenish duffel bag.

"Thank you," Hawke breathed out, weighing the bag in his healthy arm. He saw well on Merrill that there was yet another pressing matter to discuss. A cold feeling squeezed his heart, when Merrill took the bag out of his hand, clasped it into hers and started walking up the path. They strolled in silence and Samael felt the heartbeat in his throat. They reached a small even place and Hawke halted when he realized the soil was loose in the corner and there was something painfully alike to —"

"No…" a single word full of unspeakable pain slipped out of Hawke's lips. In trance, Hawke let go of Merrill's hand and made those few steps leading to a fresh grave. Samael leaned forward to read the one word carved into a plain white headstone. Then he jerked, brushed his forehead and read it again. It didn't matter how many times he had read that single word set in stone; he still didn't understand it for he didn't wish to understand.

"Leave me," he said to Merrill without looking at her, his voice hoarse and low, right above the whisper. Samael didn't notice when Merrill left as he fell to his knees in front of his friend's grave, reading that one ornamental word burning an indelible mark into his soul.

_Charon._

oOo_  
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Next few days blurred into one tormenting experience for Hawke. The bag Merrill had given him rested in the corner of her tent, unopened. Samael didn't talk to anyone, didn't eat nor did he sleep. Every morning he grabbed the daggers Master Ilen had borrowed him and trudged up the path, followed by the eyes of Merrill and the whole clan. The Keeper was wise enough to leave him alone for a few days, but his self-destructive behavior bothered her beyond the bearable point.

When Hawke set off on his lonesome journey the next day, he had no idea a shadow was sneaking right behind him; watching him, guarding him, despairing. As always Hawke stripped an elven under tunic and folded it in grass, yet there was an odd solemnity to his moves Merrill had never seen before. Samael stretched and pale scars on his tanned skin glowed in the morning sun. He gripped Master Ilen's exquisite examples of elvhenan craft from the old times, their blades damasked with pattern wielding, the hilts magnificent in their simplicity. Samael stared at the weapons for a while, motionless, only then he twirled them in his hands, swinging them freely in perfect arcs.

Merrill forgot to breathe at first. She indeed intimately knew the body whirling around the glade right now as Hawke started working through the fighting stances. An involuntary gasp of longing slipped through her lips, but then something else caught her attention. The blade simply fell out of the assassin's left hand. Samael murmured something and picked up the weapon with a bulldog expression on his face. Again, he faced off with the invisible enemy and, again, the blade slipped out of his hand and thudded indecently on the ground. This scene repeated countless times, until Hawke let out a mighty howl of anguish and hurled the other dagger into a tree trunk. His healthy hand then grasped his crippled arm by the wrist, smothering it, punishing it for not working properly.

"Hawke!" Merrill couldn't bear his despair anymore and walked out of her cover. Samael let go of his hand, lowering the head in shame.

"How long have you been here?" he asked finally when it was obvious Merrill just wouldn't leave him to his frustration.

"Long enough," she touched his bandaged arm briefly, but pulled her hand back when he shuddered. "You're overloading your arm, Samael. This must stop." Her voice was shaking during her speech as though she knew the arm would never be all right; ever again.

"It will never work again, right?" Samael echoed her thoughts and his healthy hand soared up, raking through disheveled hair in despair. "Right?" he asked her; his voice growing stronger. "And you insist on calling yourself a healer?" he roared a second later, kicking a pebble in his way and turning his back at her.

Merrill inhaled deeply, forcing herself to remain silent and calm. Here was Hawke's unbelievable arrogance and ingratitude again!

"I'm sorry about your hand, Samael," she spoke into silence, making a hesitant step towards him. "I really did my best," she touched him briefly. "I'm sorry it wasn't enough," she gulped the bitter tears back when her gaze landed on his bandaged arm which was hanging down helplessly.

"Save your pity for somebody who would appreciate it, witch," Hawke growled and stormed out. If Samael decided to stab her right in the heart then, it wouldn't hurt more than these words.

oOo

Merrill paced around the camp for a while, ignoring her brethren glaring at her, whispering behind her back about the odd influence the shemlen seemed to have on their Keeper. She rubbed her tired eyelids, convincing herself Hawke would come back at any minute by now. Nobody was coming though. She gave up and disappeared in a tent she used as storage for her books and other things since she insisted Samael would stay in her own tent.

It was around midnight when a shadow crept through the Dalish camp. Samael watched the sleeping Keeper in the light of a single flickering candle, beating himself up for his earlier harsh words. He pulled his hand back several times, before he finally let it touch Merrill's porcelain skin. She stirred and her eyes opened slowly as though she had been waiting for this bitter-sweet awakening.

"Merrill, I —"

"Shhh, ma vhenan," she brushed a finger across his parted lips. Maybe it was her lovely face which forced him to throw away his mask, maybe he just couldn't bear anymore the thought of what had happened to him at the lakes. His father – captured. His mabari – slaughtered. His friends – in danger. Everything he had considered as granted – gone. He collapsed down to his knees, vaguely realizing Merrill's thin arms encircled him right away. He huddled in her embrace like a lost child, letting the tears of humiliation to flow freely.

"That hand," Samael sobbed and tried to clench it into fist, unsuccessfully, "that stupid hand just won't listen to me." Merrill was crushed by his heartbreaking wailing; cry of a proud warrior who was robbed of his ability to fight, to defend, to kill.

"I'm so sorry, ma vhenan. I'm truly sorry, but I was barely able to save it. Any other would have just cut it off. I really tried my best, you have to believe me, please, ma vhenan…" she pleaded with him, unaware of the fact his despair ran much deeper than just the crippled hand.

"I'm done, I snuffed it, it's over," frantic, bitter words of defeat were rushing out of Hawke's mouth. "Once everybody learns I'm unable to fight, they'll just swoop upon me and when they're finished with me I'll have nothing left to lose," he looked up at her and shook his head, broken by this powerlessness.

"Nobody knows," Merrill surprised him with this confident reply, brushing stray hair strand off his face. She realized there was nothing he couldn't ask of her, nothing she wouldn't do for him, if it only ended with them being together, completing each other, making each other whole again because they both felt as though they were torn asunder ever since their dissension.

"Nobody knows, but you and me," she pulled away from him just enough to look deep into his eyes. "Let's keep it that way," she whispered and gathered him back into her soothing arms. Hawke lowered his head into the cleft between her breasts, hungrily reveling in the scent of her. Merrill carefully considered her brethren's reaction if they found out the shemlen slept in her tent. Only then did she pull Hawke up onto her creaking cot, wrapping them both into thick blankets and furs.

The candle sizzled and went out just like Samael's hope that the things would get better someday.


	6. Chapter 6

Hawke tiptoed around the bag Merrill had given him for a week as though he knew once he would peek inside, he would have to run to Kirkwall and rip Meredith's heart out. Samael's next stop would be no doubt at Ser Alrik's cell at the Gallows. However impossible it seemed to not know about what had become of his friends and his father, Hawke managed to fool himself for days as he childishly refused to face reality. He soothed himself with a thought that he would open that blasted bag tomorrow, and if not tomorrow, surely the day after tomorrow.

But the elves were growing weary of the shemlen, although he kept just to himself and spent the days mostly outside of their camp. Perhaps it wasn't the presence of an interloper what concerned them the most. Actually, they seemed much more disturbed about the way their Keeper treated that insignificant human worm. She brought him there more dead than alive, yet he walked around like nothing had happened, and the way she was looking at him whenever he mysteriously appeared at the camp, only to disappear a few minutes later…

"What foul magic did she have to call upon to bring him back from the Beyond?" they kept whispering, shooting suspicious glances at Hawke.

"What odd power that shemlen has over her?" they kept muttering behind the Keeper's back. As much as Merrill wanted to confirm their dark theories out of spite, she tossed the bowl away with evening meal and marched right into her tent. Everybody knew Hawke was in there although not a sound came from inside ever since he came back from his lonesome practice. It was a public secret the shemlen trained day by day with daggers, then he stopped by mabari's grave which they considered rather amusing and only then he returned to the Dalish camp to survive yet another sleepless night.

Merrill hadn't seen Hawke for the whole damned day and he managed to elude her even after his arrival, which angered her beyond the point of caring about what her brethren would think about her excessive care for the human.

"How's your hand?" she glanced around the shadowy tent, her fingers nervously playing with the black ring. Merrill realized only now Hawke wasn't able to look into the bag so far and she knew him well enough to know, why.

"Same," was his snippy reply as he turned around to face her. It was written all over his face how uncomfortable he felt in her company. "Just a piece of meat I consider feeding stray dogs with," he grunted as though it was her fault. He did notice how she shrank back after this misplaced reproof and inwardly slapped himself for it. Samael poked the bag with his boot before he stalked over to her, painfully aware of the fact the elves outside fell silent as they tried to figure out what was happening inside of the Keeper's tent.

"Merrill…" he whispered the name he had been whispering for years now. A sweet name, a bitter name, a name that meant world to him. She looked up at him, confused by this sudden change. He stood there just a second ago, glaring at her in cold demeanor, then he made her quiver in both hope and lust just by approaching her and looking into her eyes.

"Ehm… I… Actually…I came only to remove the bandage," was Merrill's diaphanous pretext for entering the tent. So why did she stagger a step away from him?

"Right," Hawke sneered and Merrill experienced a sudden desire to slap that smug off his face. "You can take what's left inside of the bandage as well. It appears I'll make my contribution to this cruel world under the nickname Samael the Lefty, a crowned bastard of Fereldan," he chuckled bitterly at her outraged face.

"The ring…?" Merrill ruined his pretended abandon when she noticed the black ring hanging on a delicate silver chain around Samael's neck. "I didn't know you still have it," she whispered in disbelief more to herself than to him. Hawke fidgeted and covered the ring with his clothing.

Realizing she wouldn't hear a word about the ring from Hawke, Merrill reached for his bandaged arm, simpering about this unexpected discovery. "Let's see then," she sighed and her smile faded as she started working.

Hawke's eyes were growing wider with every strip of bandage removed off his skin. The arm seemed fine from shoulder to elbow, the bronzed skin intact and weaved with thick blue veins, but then it dramatically turned bluish and pale on Samael's forearm and the veins turned into prominent black curves, showing that there was something awfully wrong with Hawke's left hand.

"What the —" Hawke breathed out in dismay, waving his pallid fingers. With a vulture-like expression, he grasped an empty mug with them, watching as the muscles and ligaments within the hand struggled for a while, then gave up and the mug fell down and chipped upon the ground. Samael winced, but other than that he remained oddly passive. As though he had accepted the fact he was clapped-out and this realization indeed sent shivers down Merrill's spine. It was nothing but pure woe to see Hawke this way, beaten down, unresponsive, when he was supposed to be furious and plotting revenge for whoever dared do this to him.

Samael couldn't bear the pity Merrill had in her eyes, so he snatched the bag and emptied it on a cot with one fierce movement. Hawke's healthy hand started hesitantly fingering various items scattered on the blanket. His twin blades he had at a lake bank. Some tattered book Merrill had taken from Ichabod's shack no doubt. A black leather scabbard adorned with delicate silver net. Hawke looked up at Merrill in surprise when he recognized the hilt of his katana, the very same weapon that ended Arishok's life and which had been broken into two pieces afterwards. Samael never wondered about what had happened to his weapon for he didn't want it back.

"Varric retrieved it," Merrill felt obligated to explain when Hawke kept staring at it in silence. "Ichabod came here a few weeks ago, asking if he could use the cabin by the lakes which was usually used by my hunters. He also brought this," she shyly touched the scabbard, "asking if Master Ilen had tools and skills to repair it."

"And you…" Samael's hoarse voice cracked.

"Yes. It's repaired now," she replied quietly. "Hawke… About your hand… It's not like you can't fight, ma vhenan. I've seen you doing things single-handedly! Amazing things! Things I've never seen before! You just need to —"

"Shut up," Hawke whispered, closing his eyes in painful grimace.

"— to learn how to conceal it, Samael. Nobody knows except for the two of us and —"

"I SAID SHUT UP!" Hawke's temper blew up. He heard well those alarmed voices outside of the tent, but he couldn't care less right now. Was that insufferable elf trying to say nothing had happened? Nothing at all? That he had no lifeless stump instead of his left arm? That he was supposed to simply forgive and forget everything what had happened?

"I don't want it," he clasped the katana scabbard again and hurled it at Merrill.

"B-but… But it's from Ichabod," Merrill's eyebrows knitted as though Hawke was obligated to take it.

"And?" Hawke mocked her. "How do you even know he wanted me to have it back?" he snapped back at her, chuckling with a horrid sneer on his face.

"He told me so," she replied quietly, making a few steps towards him.

"He… What… He told you that… What?" Hawke gathered the strength just to ramble. Maker, did she _know_? Did she know Ichabod was his resurrected father? Aveline, Anders and Varric swore to keep this secret for themselves and Hawke was pretty sure Ichabod would remain silent, too.

"He meant you to have it, Hawke." Merrill's serious eyes ensnared Samael and he slowly took back the katana, giving her an abstracted nod. His gaze roamed around the tent for a while before he noticed yet another item from the bag; a parchment envelope stained with dried blood. Hawke's blood. Samael shredded it, unfolding the vellum slowly. Right after the first read words, he stumbled a step back, sitting heavily on the cot as he was reading through the message. Alarmed, Merrill wanted to ask what was going on, but Hawke simply banished her from her own tent, giving her such a glare that she didn't dare disobey.

_Malcolm Hawke – presenting himself as Ichabod Bane, captured and imprisoned_

_Aveline Vallen – Guards Captain, momentarily untouchable, her ranks infiltrated, waiting for orders_

_Anders of Anderfels – a Warden refugee, dangerous apostate running a free clinic in Darktown, his current position: unknown, thorough search in progress_

_Merrill – Dalish Keeper, mistress, her clan located at Sundermount, unprotected during day, two patrols during night, waiting for the order to burn the camp down_

_Varric Tethras – a dwarf, businessman connected to any possible illegal activity brewing in Kirkwall, a friend, imprisoned_

_Fenris – an elf, mercenary, close friend squatting in Hightown mansion which was raided and seized, casualties: 12 Templars; imprisoned and punishment required_

_Alejandro Herrera – young boy, protégé, his role unclear so far, imprisoned_

_Bodahn Feddic, Sandal Feddic – dwarves in Hawke estate for years, loyal, imprisoned_

_Corff Bowbitter – a friend and owner of the Hanged Man, bonds to Undercity, harboring mages and outlaws, imprisoned_

_Isabela of Rivain – a close friend, her current location: unknown_

.  
>.<p>

The list went on and on, but Samael simply had no strength to read other names; the names of people whose lives were in Hawke's hands right now. Right hand clasping the vellum dropped down in defeat. Meredith was thorough and merciless. Yet another short note written on the other side of vellum caught his attention though.

_Champion of Kirkwall,  
>Knight-Commander Meredith awaits your arrival in the morning of the seventh day from our lovely encounter at the Bone Pit lakes. I strongly suggest carefully considering your words and deeds upon this crucial meeting.<em>

_Sincerely and forever yours,_

_Ser Alrik, Knight-Captain of the Templar order of Kirkwall_

"Sincerely and forever yours," Hawke read out loud, shaking his head in hysterical laughter. "Sincerely and forever yours!" he bellowed a second later, raging around the tent. He was realizing vaguely the meeting was supposed to take place tomorrow. Hawke was about to bolt out of the tent when he turned back and grasped the katana in haste.

"Where is he?" he shouted in all four directions when he got out. The elves hurried to get out of the crazy shemlen's way, some of them even fumbling for their weapons. "Occelaaaa!" Samael cried out once more, whirling around to locate his long-legged friend. Only now he realized he had been neglecting him for days. It wouldn't surprise him if the horse refused to come, considering his devious character and general moodiness.

"We haven't seen him in days, shem…" a young Dalish hunter took pity on Hawke's despair and spoke up. As a reply to this statement, wind brought to them a distant, barely audible neigh.

"Hawke!" Merrill tried to catch the sleeve of Hawke's borrowed elven clothing.

"I have to go," he started striding forward while attaching the katana scabbard on his belt, rather clumsily.

"What? Why? You aren't well enough to travel and I certainly —" Merrill kept scuttling by his side, desperately trying to make heads and tails of Hawke's unexpected departure.  
>Quickly and imperceptibly like night wind in withering grass, the magnificent stallion halted in a skid in front of his master, jerking his head in pure joy of a good run. His disheveled mane looked like fluid silver in gloom and Samael mounted the horse before the Keeper could have stopped him.<p>

"What did that note say? Why are you leaving? I don't understand!" Merrill yowled up at the assassin who was about to heel the horse. He shuddered at the sight of her helpless face, but the best thing he could do right there right now was to leave this place without telling her anything that could have endangered her or her people.

"I know," his fingers briefly brushed her lovely face. He didn't care that the elves were watching them in awe and neither did she. "Do… Not… Follow me," he ordered her as he leaned down to her, searching for any sign she had understood the importance of this indirect behest. Other words seemed needless for their faces were more than eloquent at this very moment. Not able to prolong the pain from their parting, Samael buried the boots in Occela's flanks and evaporated into twilight shadows.

oOo

People were jumping out of the way of the man mad enough to ride the horse at a gallop through the streets of Kirkwall. Those, who weren't fast enough to dodge the horseman whose loose black hair were streaming behind him in thick strands, were simply thrown away like rag dolls and their curses followed Hawke during his frenzied stampede through the dim city.

It was just like the letter said. To the last punctilious tiny detail. Mansions raided. Shutters closed, doors barred. Their owners gone, imprisoned.

Occela's black hooves were striking sparks on the courtyard flagstones and the beast let out a long feral howl when Hawke brutally pulled in the reins. Heavy door of Hawke estate swung open as he dashed inside, leaving the exhausted stallion whose fur glistened with sweat outside; forgotten for now.

"Bodahn?" Hawke mounted the stairs with three long jumps, shouting the name of his butler from the top of his lungs.

"Sandal!" he jumped over the balustrade, landing on the main floor again and burst into the kitchen.

"Heeeein!" he lost control over himself as he stormed into his bedroom, looking for the boy. Until now there yet remained an infinitesimal chance this whole situation was nothing but a really bad, bad joke. But not anymore. His friends, his servants, his business-partners, his father, all of them gone. He reeled outside of his estate as though in trance and only now he realized there was yet one being standing at his side. Occela's long elegant legs were shaking beneath the weight of his taut body; legacy of their insane race to Kirkwall no doubt.

"Come with me, my friend," Hawke murmured when he approached the stallion. Occela jerked his head and dodged Hawke's soothing hand, only to let it stay on his neck a second later. "I'm sorry, my friend. I'm so sorry. Let me take care of you now. Everything's fine. We're fine…" his hoarse voice kept whispering into Occela's ear and the stallion calmed down, whinnying and nudging Hawke with his muzzle.

Samael took his time with drying and grooming the horse, whilst Occela guzzled water and munched on a large haystack. Even if there were any servants left at Hawke estate, Samael would have done this by himself, feeling guilty for almost killing this marvelous creature and he also needed to do something, anything right now. Something he could focus on while his mind was frantically working on the single task – how to wriggle out of this impossible situation. Whom he could call on to help? The usual suspects were in the clear; there was no Fenris and no Varric to help him this time. Isabela was Maker knew where and Anders was probably running around the sewers, battling the Templars. Justice must have loved this. Merrill had her own people to deal with and he definitely wasn't about to drag her down along with himself. Charon was dead. Aveline was being watched closely and Meredith was lurking in the shadows to strike the Captain down at the first possible moment.

Fawn.

Yes. If Samael needed somebody right now, it would be Fawn and his scheming abilities trained into perfection. But where was the end of the Hero of Fereldan? Hawke didn't know and he doubted anyone would. No. Samael was just by himself right now if he didn't count that inarticulate beast resting in the stable.

Samael dragged himself into his bedroom; the deafening silence at his own estate was unbearable. He lit up a single iron candelabra and read through the list from Ser Alrik again; his face calm and cold this time. After two hours spent with thorough consideration of this whole situation, it was suddenly crystal clear for Hawke. He was doomed.

oOo

Merrill was restless after Hawke's sudden departure. The condemning glares of her brethren followed her wherever she went, but she didn't mind. Those few days spent with him seemed to have awakened something dormant in Merrill. Something Merrill thought was replaced with her elvhenan brothers and sisters, but it was nothing but her wishful thinking. Hawke needed her right now, she was positively sure of that. Something was going on and he was determined not to let her interfere, to protect her when it was him who needed protection right now.

Merrill glanced around her wildly as though she was utterly confused why she was lingering here when her place was by his side. Always had been, always would be. Merrill had become the Keeper through a murder, a murder she was forced to commit for something she didn't want. The clan couldn't remain Keeper-less. Merrill craved to pass the Keeper's staff to whoever seemed fit for this task. And there was but one person able to lead the Dalish.

"We need to talk," Merrill barged into Veryan's tent, breathless. He looked up at her upset face from the book he was reading. Then he nodded.

oOo

"Don't do this," Veryan pleaded with the Keeper an hour later. He would have dropped to his knees if he thought that would prevent her from carrying out her insane plan. But Merrill was already resolved; he could see it in her eyes. As much as he disagreed with her, he admired her courage and will to do whatever it took to regain what she had lost. "Once you do this, there's no way back, Keeper."

"I know," Merrill stood up and Veryan noticed her eyes shone in… Happiness? Fool's hope? Insanity? "But this is my choice," she continued, her face proud and determined. She studied Veryan's worried face for a while, then she smiled and turned around to leave.

"Don't…!" Veryan caught her thin arm in panic.

"Do we have a deal or not?" Merrill asked the only thing that mattered to her right now, gently squeezing the hand preventing her from leaving.

"Yes. Yes, we have a deal," was his quiet, but decisive reply. Merrill exhaled in relief, nodding her thanks, before she slipped out of her First's tent and glanced up at the night skies dotted with blinking stars. Yes. Tonight was the night. A perfect night for starting a new life.

oOo

Merrill gravely regretted that she had no staff the minute she arrived at Hightown square, realizing the door to Hawke estate were yawning open at her and the mansion seemed deserted as she walked through darkened rooms. Where were servants? Where were Bodahn and his son? Where was everyone? And the most importantly – where was Hawke?  
>Only when she climbed up the stairs, her bare soles inaudibly toddling on cold stone, she realized the bedroom door were slightly ajar; beams of flickering warm light from behind those door chasing away the shadows. She wanted to call his name, but her voice froze in her throat. Slowly, centimeter after centimeter, she pushed the door wide open and strolled inside only to realized there was no one in there.<p>

"Where are you…" she sighed and stopped in the middle of chamber, looking for some clues about what was going on in this ghostly mansion. The door creaked as they moved on its own and Merrill whirled around, fumbling for a non-existent staff. "Samael…!" she breathed out a second later when she had spotted a dark silhouette leaning on the wall in nonchalant pose.

"I can't see where I went wrong with as simple statement as 'do not follow me' was, Merrill," he pushed himself off the wall with his arms folded on chest. Only now she realized his hands and forearms were covered with gauntlets made of soft tanned leather, intentionally covering his wounded arm.

"You couldn't expect me to just let you leave like this," she made a hesitant step towards him, "I mean, you're not well and everything and… Where's everybody anyway? What's going on here?" her voice died away.

"And since when do you care so much, hm, _Keeper_?" he scoffed and it was clear he still had problems to accept her being the Keeper since he had been bringing it up again and again.

"Oh, did I look like I don't care when I've saved you?" she scowled at him. "Again?" she added a venomous remark when he remained silent.

"You tell me, _Keeper_," he retorted and made a single step towards her as well. They glared at each other in silence for a while.

"I shouldn't have come here," she mumbled finally, realizing Hawke was now standing between the door and herself.

"So why don't you leave then?" he asked while his soul was screaming for her to stay. Merrill's face darkened after this pungent question and she stumbled for the door. She reached for it to make a crack big enough to slip through it, but the door was slammed close in front of her face when Hawke fiercely leaned on it with his arm.

"You didn't come here to talk." It wasn't a question; merely stating the obvious as Hawke trapped her between his arms.

"No," she shook her head faintly. "No, I didn't," she confirmed and looked up at him. Her eyes then slid along the muscular arms, filling her nostrils with acrid odour of leather and scent of his skin.

"You've got to be kidding me…" Hawke snorted when Merrill simply started pressing kisses all along his healthy arm with rising intensity. He knew he should have pulled back, he should have shoved her away, but he grabbed the all too willing elf instead and maneuvered them both towards the bed. Their clothes were discarded as they got in the way while their hands and lips sought to give selfless pleasure. With an impatient moan, Merrill tossed away a gauntlet covering Hawke's right arm, but he caught her hands when she tried to do the same with the left one.

His amber eyes flared with moisture when he shook his head to let her know he didn't desire to see his lifeless arm. Ensnaring him with her pellucid eyes, Merrill disobeyed him when she gently unlaced the gauntlet and the pale skin on Hawke's arm glowed in gloom. The black veins looked as though they were drawn on white skin. Merrill curled her whole being around the arm, realizing it was freezing cold, and it was just her magic which kept it more or less alive. She smiled when those ghostlike fingers brushed her face tenderly.

Samael lost tracked of for how long they had been simply enjoying the closeness of each other. All he knew was that starting with tomorrow Merrill was supposed to be forbidden fruit for him if he wanted to protect her from Meredith. But there was yet one last night during which he could call Merrill his. And he intended to enjoy every second of that night.

He picked her up, laying her down on the bed then laying himself down besides her, not breaking their eye contact. He started playing her body like only he was able to for he was the only one allowed to touch it. Merrill's fingers tangled in the black hair veil which tickled her on her heated skin. The world spun around her as she found herself sitting on the edge of the bed with Samael kneeling in front of her. He looked her up and down; her heaving chest, widened eyes where he could see himself, her lovely cheeks with vermilion on them, her slightly parted lips inviting him to claim her. Cocking his head with a wicked smile on his face, he thrust his hips forward, finally connecting their bodies. Merrill's fingernails started wandering down Hawke's back, tracing the bulging muscles as he started building up their pleasure. She let out a wordless moan, her arms forcing him to go even faster, and only now he stopped, holding her squirming body on the spot, enjoying her frustrated face and quickened breathing.

He could feel her inner muscles caressing him, pulling him even deeper, tempting him to enter the very center of her being, yet he remained motionless, calmly sitting within her, watching her, watching her reaction, content with what he saw.

Merrill blinked, a demure smile settling on her face, then it turned into impish giggles when she freed herself out of Hawke's arms and started crawling backwards from him, opening quite a view for his hungry eyes.

With one fluid jump Samael landed on the bed, grasped the elf by her ankles and yanked her back to him, penetrating her with one violent move again, throwing his head back and groaning; an endless sound of desire so intense it bordered with agony. They wrestled for a while, moving together, punishing and pleasuring each other at the same time, until Hawke flipped her over, clearly weary of this power game. He towered above her, making his way into her again. Once her inner muscles clenched against him again, he shuddered, jerking his head savagely in pure animal lust. He looked like a rampant stallion that discovered just now what were his legs for, and couldn't stop running ever since even if he wanted to.

Merrill hooked her leg around his shoulder, allowing him to penetrate even deeper and she rewarded him with long scratches across his back to let him know the geyser of lust was about to explode within her. Again and again he slammed his whole length into her until she screamed – to stop, to go on, to do whatever he desired to do with her. Only then he joined her in that scream. Merrill was nothing but an ambiguous feeling, losing her mind, her body, her whole self to this man. Samael collapsed onto his hands, panting, his eyes closed tight, then the wounded arm yielded and he landed on his side, too spent, too limp to curse the arm which once again betrayed him.

Hawke loved many things which united within his little fragile elf, but if he should pick just one of them at this very moment, it would be definitely Merrill's ability to remain silent after sex. She would wait for Samael to stir, to awake from that little death which men experience post coitum, only then she would poke him as long until he would gather her into arms, either talking to her or preserving that sacred silence. Once nestled in his tight embrace, Merrill couldn't hold her curiosity in check any longer, considering the timing as good as possible.

"Care to finally tell me what's going on here, ma vhenan?" she murmured into his chest and regretted her question right away, since Hawke's hand drawing tiny circles on her back stopped. This single question hurled him back into reality. Charon dead, his friends imprisoned, his father taken away from him, everything. He rose from the bed, sauntering around the room for a while before he halted by the windows, gazing over Hightown. It seemed quiet and peaceful, but Hawke knew better by now than to believe that spurious coating of glamorous life at this gilding place.

"I can't tell you," his hushed answer came when Merrill thought he wouldn't reply at all.

"You mean, you won't tell me," she jumped out of the bed, too, making her way towards him.

"Damn straight I won't tell you!" he snapped at her, grasping her shoulders. If only she knew…

"You won't tell me because you think you protect me…?" Merrill half-asked, half-stated.

"Merrill," he sighed heavily, trying to touch her, but she dodged his hand. "Something has gone wrong," he started quietly, hesitant. "I brought this on myself and I'm going to suffer the consequences for my deeds. It's a burden I intend to share with nobody for nobody can help me."

"But —" she tried to interrupt him, but he wouldn't let her.

"And when I say nobody, I mean _nobody_," he brushed her lips with a thumb. "Not even you," he turned away from her, stomping to the bed where he sat down with his head in palms. Merrill watched him for a while, worrying her lower lip.

"You probably want me to leave," she uttered finally, her eyes searching for her clothing.

"Stay," he looked up at her before she could reach for her robes. "Stay with me tonight," he pleaded with her. _Pleaded. _Merrill had never seen him begging for something before. Until now. He didn't know nor did he care about what was about to happen in the morning; what were Meredith's plans with him. All he knew was that he would indulge her every demand or order if it meant his friends and father would walk free. Even if it was his head on spike she craved.

Merrill's eyes filled with tears when she saw Hawke so broken, so vulnerable, with so many questions obscuring him, and she needed all her strength to pop out the answer. "No," she shook her head mildly, watching him as he closed the eyes in torment for a moment, nodding as though he understood her need to punish him. "Tell me and I'll stay, Samael," she tried to force him to talk to her one last time.

"No," he refused to even consider bringing her into dark game Meredith had been so successfully playing with him. Tears broke free, rolling down Merrill's cheeks, but she swept them away promptly before she dressed up hastily and headed for the door.

"There are many people who yearn to know their last day and hour," his thoughtful voice stopped her from opening the door. "Fools," Samael chuckled bitterly as he stood up and strolled to her. Merrill's confused face told him she had no idea what he spoke of. "Now I can call myself a fool as well because my life is about to end in a few hours."

"Samael, please, tell me what's go —"

"Take care of yourself, my little pariah. And of your people, of course. Do not linger in Kirkwall. Go straight back to them." Hawke placed a long peck on her forehead before he pushed her out of the door, slamming it closed behind her back. This was for the best, he kept convincing himself. This was the only way how to protect her. He would go down. She would be fine. Right. And the pigs might fly, the cats might bark.


	7. Chapter 7

The upper bedroom at Hawke estate was drowning in early morning shadows when Hawke sat down in his favorite armchair, ruminating over and over the unbelievable situation he was in right now. It was one of those elusive moments when a man questions himself and all his choices he had ever made, which unerringly led him to this very point in his life. Samael always knew there was a red line, some untouchable boundary, which should have never been overstepped; yet he danced back and forth across it as he pleased out of spite. He knew for sure he had crossed this imaginary line countless times and now was the time to pay the price for all of his ill deeds – all those pompous soirées, all those reeking bodies piling up along his way, his dissolute behavior as he had been buying in anything he liked only to toss it away the moment he got bored of it and many other things were just waiting to bite him in the ass. But just like any other mortal, Samael simply thought, hoped in fact, that he would be spared of final reckoning, but Meredith proved to him how awfully wrong his assumption was and how futile his hopes were.

Hawke stirred when the first beams of sunlight started breaking over Hightown roofs, chasing away the shadows obscuring the bedroom, but not the shadows plaguing Hawke's mind. He sighed, glancing around the place he had been calling home for years. He wanted to think about Meredith, about his father, about Merrill, but his mind refused to do so, commanding him to stand up and get dressed instead. He realized he was still wearing elven linen clothing dyed into greenish shades, adorned with silver buckles and light leather thongs. Well, he didn't want to face destiny dressed like a pointy-eared nancy elf, now did he? He took a long bath, tracing all scars he could find on his body in deep contemplation, not really thinking about anything, when he stood in front of his closet and eyed his armor sets and endless rows of various garments. Bah, he had wore just a tenth of what was inside and liked even less than that!

He didn't know why, but Hawke pulled out a very elegant ensemble, one which he had never wore before for it had been a gift from his mother. It absolutely didn't suit him and his taste, but neither did this impossible situation after all. Once dressed, Hawke stared at himself in the looking glass for a while before realizing he was completely unarmed, but he considered it unnecessary. He wasn't about to fight Meredith; more like appease her every whim. Also Hawke was convinced he would have stabbed her the moment he got near her, so not having a sword, a dagger, throwing knives, any weapon, was nothing but a nice little safeguard. Of course, there was always the enticing option to strangle the bitch to death, but his crippled hand wouldn't cooperate with that deed either. Perversely satisfied with this aftermath, Samael put on a pair of delicate brown leather gloves which matched his outfit and covered the almost translucent left hand. He didn't think twice before he scribbled a short note to whomever would read it first to take care of Occela. Oddly enough, Samael didn't care about what would happen to his estate, to all of his belongings, the ship, or his lyrium business for none of these things mattered to him any longer.

Hair neatly combed and braided, his apparel spotless, feeling naked without a weapon; Hawke took one last stroll through his silent estate, before he walked outside into the morning sun. His face remained colorless when he realized there was a double row of Templars patiently waiting for him, to escort him to whatever fate Meredith had concocted for him.

"Serah Hawke," Cullen stepped forward, bowing his head in suspiciously polite gesture.

"What a delight," Hawke returned the bow with much less courtesy, "the bright sun above my head, perfume of posh courtesans in my picky nose, and a bunch of morons stuffed in shiny armor in my sight." Hawke had no idea why, but he simply felt like making inappropriate jests right now, although Cullen didn't seem to appreciate it as he showed Hawke his way through the Templar corridor.

"So, which is it gonna be, Cullen?" Hawke threw in a derisive question when he started striding to the Gallows with the nervous Cullen by his side and a Templar squadron breathing on his neck. "Am I under arrest? Perhaps a nice and quiet execution? Public lynching? Hanging me by the rib at the city gates?"

"What in the Maker's name are you talking about?" the taciturn Templar-Lieutenant blurted out, mistrustfully glancing at the young ruffian by his side.

"Oh, so you were ordered not to spill the beans then," Samael grumbled and even quickened his pace as though he couldn't wait to see for himself what was about to happen. "Such cruelty toward the poor condemned man," he shook his head with brief chuckle.

"Look, I don't know what is the matter between you and Meredith, I mean the Knight-Commander, Serah Hawke," Cullen frowned at Hawke who was openly glaring at him now. "The order was to accompany you to the Gallows and when I say 'accompany you'; I mean we were supposed to be at your disposal and guard you." The young Templar finished speaking and realized Hawke was by his side no longer. Samael had stopped abruptly, both surprised and disconcerted; and the Templars glowing in sun collided behind his back with loud clangour and a few hushed curses. Hawke wordlessly stared at Cullen for a while, but there was no lie within his confused face, so he started walking again, scornfully whistling at the Templars as though they were his mongrels.

"Well, here we are, Serah Hawke," Cullen beckoned at the assassin who had been sneering like a brat who had done something wrong and knew that there would be no punishment.

"Is there a way I could wriggle out of this?" Hawke leaned closer to the Knight-Lieutenant who blushed at once. Of course Samael noticed the handsome young Templar as much as the Templar noticed him.

"No," was Cullen's prompt, if not firm reply.

"Where's bathroom?" Hawke kept nudging the nervous Templar. "Can I at least take a piss?"

"No!" Cullen almost sizzled at that insufferable person who just seemed to possess an odd ability to get under people's skin. Expecting some other maneuvers to avoid meeting with Meredith, Cullen grasped the door knob of Knight-Commander's office, but Hawke's sudden silence left him wondering. He searched the assassin's face and the change on it was overwhelming, since it turned pale, his forehead glistened in sweat, while Hawke's lower lip quivered until he set his jaw into a crooked grimace. Confused, Cullen followed Hawke's hateful gaze to see for himself what caused the fearless Champion of Kirkwall to shake like a fledgling which was about to be devoured by a predator.

"Maker watch over you, Cullen," a cold nasal voice uttered into stony silence. Azure blue eyes of a sinner, pale lanky hands of a priest. A lizard slithering behind Hawke, a demon haunting his dreams ever since their encounter at the banks of Bone Pit lakes.

"Maker watch over us all," Cullen replied slowly, hesitant, as though he was trying to figure out what was going on. Ser Alrik smiled with a broad toothy grin and Hawke's left hand twitched as though it was reliving the pain that man had inflicted, seeking a sword, a poisoned blade, a stone, anything it could use to wipe that snide smirk off Alrik's face with. Cullen was at a loss here. What had happened between the two of them? Of course he knew Alrik was the one who delivered the message to the Champion, but that was pretty much it. The whole situation got even more absurd when Hawke desperately jiggled the door knob of Meredith's door, indicating that he considered Meredith a lesser evil than Ser Alrik.

"Welcome, Champion," Meredith's brusque greetings left no space for Hawke to calm down. "I can see you decided to listen to voice of reason after all," she settled in her impressive armchair, steepling her long fingers in front of her. Kicking the door shut behind his back, Samael sauntered towards her table unbelievably slowly, not taking his widened eyes burning with implacable flames off her face. Meredith's figure tensed when Hawke's hand disappeared in his vestment and he could see she wasn't far from drawing her ceremonial sword; just in case Hawke decided to skip talking part and move straight to action part.

A rumpled parchment landed on Meredith's monumental table as a silent witness of her foul game how to get Hawke's ass into her office. Samael supported himself on the table with his arms stretched; breathing heavily as though he was struggling with himself. Meredith fixed her inquiring eyes on the young man's haggard face, his gloved fingers clenching brinks of her desk as though his life depended on it, his feral eyes peering at her from beyond the black hair veil, wordlessly accusing her. She almost shuddered at that mute reproof about what she had intended to do to people; innocent people who were guilty just of being around the Champion.

"I want them back," Hawke rasped into deafening silence, nodding towards the parchment. "All of them," his narrowed eyes pierced Meredith through.

"No." Meredith clearly decided to push the Champion off the cliff of his self-discipline.

"Beg you a pardon…?" Hawke barked at her, seething.

"You heard me, Champion," Meredith dryly answered his unspoken threat. Hawke thought he had heard wrong, but he vaguely realized what was at stake here. Practically everything! His life and lives of anybody else written on that damned piece of parchment. "Let me talk for a while," Meredith rose from her seat, acting as if she had won this war already. Hawke slowly straightened up when she started orbiting around him, rubbing her chin in contemplation about how to approach this.

Hawke jerked when he felt her hand exploring his back, lingering on his shoulder, following the strand of his long hair, only to roughly push him towards the windows a second later. They walked over there, side by side, gazing over dark waters at the city of Kirkwall. It seemed so distant and yet so imminent at the same time.

"Kirkwall," Meredith stated as though she considered necessary to say out loud the name of their home. "Uncut diamond of the Free Marches with crucial position and open market," she continued as if Hawke hadn't heard about the city before. "They say the luck of Free Marches rises and falls with the tides," she laughed and Hawke was suddenly able to glimpse somebody else beneath Meredith's mask of the Knight-Commander, of a strong woman whose mind operated with words such as duty, courage and mercilessness.

"I live here too, you know," Hawke muttered and leaned on the window ledge. He had to admit the view was astonishing.

"Silence!" Meredith shouted at him to be quiet. "You still don't get it, do you?" she snapped at him, realizing in satisfaction Hawke remained silent, however peeved he seemed to be. "Kirkwall is crumbling under my hands, screaming for help, but not yet realizing no one will answer!" she exclaimed in rapture, swiveling her head to face Hawke.

"It's crumbling because there's no Viscount and you and that ridiculous elf across the hall can't sit in one room and talk through this whole damned stalemate! Or fuck through it, I really don't care!" Samael glanced at her, scowling, but his eyes were drawn back to the peaceful city gleaming in morning sun.

"Mind your tongue!" Meredith fiercely slapped him, but somehow Hawke knew he had hit a sensitive spot here.

"Cut the bullshit, Meredith," Hawke yawned at her, letting her know he wasn't about to share her philosophy and pat her shoulder for protecting the citizens with such a vigour the blood was splashing all around.

"All right!" she hissed at him, pointing at Kirkwall through the window. "Cutting the bullshit, for this city's sake, looking at it from every possible angle, this city simply needs a capable ruler. And since there's nobody but me willing to assume power and capable of dealing with Kirkwall's problems, I need to step up and start cleaning this mess!" Judging by fanatic glow in Meredith's eyes and her stiff pose, she didn't only say what she said; she also believed it with all her heart. "And you are going to help me," she turned to Hawke, looking at him as though he was a triumph hidden up her sleeve.

"Am I now…?" Hawke growled at her, folding his arms on chest. "How exactly do you plan to fool the nobles who are blocking your request of merging the Viscount's office with your own position? You grease every each one of them? Or you don't dawdle over this little inconvenient fact and you plan on killing them all? And how exactly am I fitting in into your schemes?"

A wicked smile tweaked Meredith's thin lips and Hawke's heart skipped a beat. She indeed had a plan for him and he wasn't going to like it, of course.

"I want my people back," he repeated himself, just to fill that uncomfortable silence.

"I agree," she surprised him with this terse statement. "But that rabid elf will be decapitated for the lives he has taken within the Templar order and your father dearest remains in my custody until I'm satisfied with your —" Meredith's sly eyes looked him up and down, "— performance," she finished her sentence with an odd lascivious undertone and once again Hawke shuddered in suppressed aversion.

"Well, that rabid elf, as you call him, belongs to me. You set him free before I'll do that for you," Hawke inhaled deeply and his nostrils flared in wrath, "and I want the head of your precious Ser Alrik. Let's consider it as your kind gesture sealing the start of our cooperation." Samael went all in, impatiently waiting for her reaction. Meredith's eyebrows arched at that most unexpected demand for she didn't know nor did she care about what had occurred at the lakes.

"Ser Alrik is valuable asset to Kirkwall Templar order and he is a treasured and reliable leader among my men," she slowly replied, binding herself time and clearly contemplating Hawke's strange request. "And if you want the elf, you have to give up one other person from the list," she almost cackled at Hawke's dumbfounded face. "As a guarantee of your good will sealing the start of our cooperation," she added a mocking remark after a moment during which Samael remained frozen on the spot. In trance, Hawke fumbled for a parchment still lying on the table, reading through it in silence for several long minutes. Meredith watched him with broadening creepy smile on her face. She still couldn't believe she had Hawke on her side right now, however reluctant he seemed to be.

"An —" Hawke's hoarse voice cracked. "Anders. Take Anders," he mumbled, tossing the parchment away in disgust.

"Very well then. Keep your knife-ear pet. But I better not hear about him again," she waved her hand in benevolent gesture, drawing a faint nod from Hawke. "I hope you do know I am no enemy of yours, Champion," she continued, intently watching Hawke's colorless face. "I do only what's necessary. What must be done at any cost. I hope you'll see very soon the benefits of working together, however you don't think so right now. Serve me well and I'll make it worth your while."

"Right," Hawke interrupted her bragging, raking the fingers through his hair. "Anything you need me to do right away?" he asked, hoping he could flee these bleak walls reeking of oppression and despair.

"Oh yes," Meredith's eyes widened and Hawke involuntarily staggered a step back. This simply couldn't be good. "There's a little drama we both need to attend to in a few minutes. A necessary evil, if you ask me. You just stand there, smile and nod. You are free to go afterwards and so are your friends. Expect a letter with further orders later. Understood?" Meredith clasped Hawke's shoulder, searching his once again wan face.

"Yes," Samael popped out a reply while his every sense, every fibre within his body screamed to run away.

"Carefully consider your behavior, Champion. Our whole deal stands and falls on this crucial moment. Don't make me sign a mass execution order, including your own," she whispered into his ear, realizing his feverish breathing and tremor.

"Ready whenever you are," Samael tried to reply, but it was nothing but a tormenting moan coming out of his mouth. He was well aware that he was about to break. He opened the door for Meredith; gesturing with his hand he would follow her wherever she needed him. She walked pass him, giving him an eminent glance. Hawke bowed deep his head, but it was no courtesy to his new Mistress. He was too afraid it was written in his eyes, all over his face, on the way he was holding the heavy door for the Knight-Commander. That his whole being was screaming for one thing and one thing only right now.

Samael would kill Meredith.

Not now, not tomorrow. But he would do it, even if it would be the last thing he would do in his whole forsaken life. Not because of her attitude towards the mages. Not for nourishing the civil war within the city walls. Not for imprisoning his people, nor even for taking his father away from him. He would do it because she thought she could command him and everybody else and make them her own little private slaves. Because she considered herself untouchable. Because she was convinced she could break people around her and be unbreakable herself.

Hawke served no one and he bowed to no one. Anyone claiming otherwise was bound to smell the violets from underneath. And thus he had to avoid eye contact with Meredith, because he knew all too well there was but one scarlet word branded on his face at that moment: death.

oOo

Everything that had happened afterwards seemed like one endless waking nightmare for Hawke. Meredith with him at her heels walked through the silent espaliers of the faceless guardians standing tall and proud in their Templar armor and only now Hawke realized the Gallows courtyard was buzzing with excited voices debating, shouting, laughing over one another. Samael couldn't know the worst part was yet to come. Meredith, her pace dignified and somehow triumphal, mounted the broad marble staircase, gazing over the heads of people thronging beneath her feet. If Samael hoped she would forget about him since she would be busy with polishing her own self in front of the citizens and nobles, his hopes were marred when she made him step forward as well, so the two of them stood on a hanging pedestal fenced with low elaborate iron railing.

"Good people of Kirkwall!" Meredith made an elegant gesture with her one hand reaching for her thralls who were yet to learn about this role she gave them in her haughtiness, while she squeezed Hawke's arm to stop fidgeting with her other hand. "Dark time lie ahead of us and there will be many moments when we must choose between what is easy and what is right," her voice rose in the air and filled the ominous silence.

Samael winced when he realized who had been standing right in front of him, held in the foremost of the audience by the Templars. Forcing his face to remain indifferent, he searched the faces looking at him, accusing him, condemning him. The faces of people who got into this mess because of him. People he wanted to save by sacrificing himself on the altar of Meredith's vanity.

Varric and his bulldog expression were more than eloquent and Hawke had no doubt the dwarf dearly regretted he hadn't broken up with him sooner.

Fenris, surrounded by the Templars, kept shaking the gloved hands off him, glaring up at Hawke while crushing some Tevinter curses between his teeth.

Aveline had her own men enveloping her and she watched Hawke's expressionless face in deep contemplation, rubbing her chin and turning away from him when their eyes met.

Hawke's hands clenched into fists when he had spotted Hein with both dwarves cowering by his side. The boy looked sick, his face bruised and his upper lip slashed and swollen as though he had received some goodbye ass-kicking from the Templars just a minute ago. Their eyes briefly met, but it was enough for Hawke to notice Hein was just as much pissed off as he was and that he would remain at his side no matter what. The dwarves kept staring at their feet and Samael's stomach knotted when he saw them this way – intimidated, frightened, broken.

Charlie Bowbitter's son was the only one granting Hawke a warm smile as though nothing had happened. Which was kind of bewildering since Corff's left eye was closed, encircled by almost black nasty bruise and Hawke saw a missing tooth in that carefree grin.

A sudden movement further back in the jam caught his attention though and he was able to identify that person shrouded in a torn mantle for he had glimpsed that odd blue flash coming from beneath the hood. Anders had obviously crawled out of whatever shithole he had been hiding in, to see for himself what was going on in the city. Seeing Hawke standing side by side with his arch enemy must have been like a punch below the belt for him, but there was nothing Hawke could do for him. Not anymore. Not when he had marked him as a person no longer protected by the Champion of Kirkwall.

"The old systems must be reviewed, the progress for the sake of progress must be discouraged and we must steel ourselves and use drastic measures to once more achieve peace and balance in our city!" Meredith's voice kept resonating in the Gallows courtyard and Samael caught himself not paying attention whatsoever for there was one more person he had recognized in the crowd. He would have recognized her lovely face everywhere and anytime. Merrill didn't bother to remain incognito right in the midst of Templars which sent shivers down Hawke's spine. A pure consternation mirrored on her face, only to turn into raw rage regarding Hawke's betrayal when he was clearly in cahoots with Meredith and somehow failed to mention it to her.

"Let us fight what must be fought!" Meredith shadowed Hawke when she spread her long arms; a vision of zealous desire to command, to rule, to smite. Samael's overloaded mind escaped this realm, playing hide and seek with himself and his resolve to protect his people. Oddly enough, his face bore no sign of this merciless inner fight which had been building up inside of him for months, if not years.

"Let us preserve what must be preserved and root out dark elements staining our beautiful city!" Well, it wasn't hard to guess of which 'dark elements' she spoke of. More like which magical dark elements, Hawke thought to himself.

"As a living proof of this wind of change, as a pledge of my commitment and devotion to this city, I give you now your new Viscount!" Meredith cried out, pushing her dummy forward. Hawke's soul let out an ungodly shriek and for a moment Hawke wasn't sure if it was audible or not. So this was Meredith's crazy intention with him! This was her detour, her devious plan of how to bypass the nobles, Seneschal Bran, First Enchanter Orsino and Elthina! She would rule through her Viscount puppet, because the Viscount's title itself was out of her reach! And Hawke would be nothing but a pawn in this whole dangerous game, doing her bidding, fulfilling her every whim. But wait… Wait… Hawke almost smirked.

People would never, never ever, allow to such a lowlife to rule them, right? Right. They knew he had been inserted in every foul affair in Kirkwall. They knew him as a mercenary. They knew him as a merciless businessman who left anyone silly enough to cross him bleed out in a gutter. No way would they accept a man with this history as their leader! So where the hell did that cheers coming from the whole damned courtyard come from?

The crowd roared in surprise, squeaked in astonishment, heckled in rapture. Meredith's eyes roved in satisfaction through the hailing crowd, not paying attention to those who left the Gallows courtyard in outrage. Oh, she knew well what she was doing, as always. She knew nobody would be strong enough to oppose her and her newest stunt she had invented to seize the power. Nodding at her Templars, they started maneuvering the boisterous crowd out of the Gallows, to spread the word throughout the city that there would be a new Viscount and new order would come with him.

Giving him one last glare, Varric marched away along with other people, dragging Bodahn and Sandal with him. Aveline dared the Templars touch her or force her to do anything, but she left the courtyard nonetheless, granting Hawke one last pensive gaze. Hein managed to slip through the Templars, sneaking towards his Master, but a cogent armored hand grasped him by his neck and tossed him out as well.

When Hawke woke up from his little private hell, there was nothing but quiet, deserted courtyard around him. He reeled before he collapsed to his knees, shaking his head in one last attempt to comprehend, to grasp what had happened to him and why. He shivered when a pair of soothing hands materialized out of nowhere, gently clasping him by his shoulders, not letting him fall completely down.

Hawke turned his horror-stricken face towards his saviour, slowly discerning Cullen's worried face; delicate fan of premature wrinkles around his eyes gleaming in genuine interest. Clutching the offered forearm, Samael pulled himself up, nursing his head spinning in a splitting headache.

"I need to get out of here," he breathed out, informing merely himself about his need to leave this place. Cullen didn't say a word about what had happened, simply gesturing towards the huge iron gateway yawning at them. Hawke was too afraid to look into Cullen's kind eyes for he knew what he would see within them. The only sentence loved by prigs and hated by libertines.

_I told you so._

oOo_  
><em>

_Do you hear me, Ser Wilhem, Ser Wilhem?_

This simply couldn't be happening to him. Hawke kicked the barrel standing in his way, making a merchant jump up in alarm. The dwarf held his curses just to himself though, when he saw the crazy man mumbling something to himself, teetering through the Hightown square.

_I'm a falling, Ser Wilhem, Ser Wilhem, today._

Yeah, falling sounded good enough. Through his own arrogance and irresponsibility he was marooned in Meredith's elaborate net right now.

_I'm a maiden, Ser Wilhem, Ser Wilhem._

Well, those words certainly didn't match Meredith, now did they? Hawke cackled, pushing the invisible demons out of his way. People avoided him, gaping at his elegant, now slovenly apparel, whispering remarks behind his back.

_But I'm dying Ser Wilhem, Ser Wilhem, in pain._

Hum, dying. A feeling Hawke was painfully familiar with. Just like the silly children rhyme which had been resounding in his ears ever since he had fled the Gallows. No. It was Meredith's turn now. She would pay for this. Sooner than she would have preferred. Pay for the impossible position she had put Hawke in. Pay in blood and pain, just like the silly rhyme said. Hawke didn't realize where his legs were carrying him, until he stood in the middle of the Chantry hall. An enormous golden statue built to please the Maker, whoever that was. High smooth walls domed with magnificent cupola adorned with vivid murals. Stench of asceticism and hypocrisy.

"What have I ever done to you that you hate me such?" Hawke's desperate wailing echoed within the Maker's house. The priestesses scuttled to hide from a man desperate enough to enter and question the Maker's will.

"Repent for your sins, blasphemous beast!" an old crone limped to Hawke, pointing at him with her mummy-like finger, gleeing about his heart-rending despair.

"That's enough, Sister Claudine!" a serene voice intervened, forcing the old woman to hobble away with hushed mumbles of the Chant of Light.

Elthina slowly descended the staircase, glancing around, but there was nobody but the young man staring at her with feral eyes devoid of humanity. "How can I help you, Champion?" she asked, intentionally overlooking his devastated look and shaking hands.

"Nobody can help me," he retorted, turning away from her. He was gone before the Grand Cleric could have done anything. The eternal flame flickered as Hawke razed the door to get out, and went out.

oOo

A creak of gate, muffled steps hasty enough to reveal that the person creeping through Kirkwall cemetery was nervous. Aveline snorted as she passed by the _Dumar family_ sepulcher. She was sure Marlowe Dumar would flip in his grave if only he knew who was about to replace him at the Viscount's office. Just as she suspected, the door leading to _Amell & Hawke _tomb was slightly ajar; not a sound beyond them though.

"Hawke?" she pushed the door wide open, startled how worried her own voice sounded. Her narrowed eyes flew over the silent stone catafalques and she shuddered, feeling like an interloper.

"Hawke!" she repeated his name, her voice stronger this time. Anything, but that disturbing silence. Then she saw him; huddled between his parents' graves, curled into himself like only a lost, scared child could be.

"Hawke…" she sighed, slowly approaching him. She had no idea what to say, now, when she had finally found him. She crammed herself right next to him, swearing since her armor was no good for her intentions.

"What are you doing here?" he droned, not willing to get out of his shell any time soon. "If you came to preach, you shouldn't have bothered."

"Not that it wouldn't do you any good, but no. I'm not here to act some smart-ass. I came to apologize." Aveline couldn't have chosen more unexpected words, it seemed.

"Whaaat?" Hawke mocked her, confirming Aveline's theory about him being a stubborn brat.

"You don't think I've orchestrated this whole thing? That I secretly longed to be the Viscount for years, right after being a scum and lyrium smuggler?"

"I should have seen this coming, Hawke. Don't forget I deal with that bitch on daily basis," she sighed, brushing her forehead, poking him to finally look at her. "So, she has Malcolm, huh…" her quiet voice trailed off and she heard something suspiciously similar to a sob. "Crying won't help, you know," she remarked, but her hand gently stroked Hawke's head.

"I'm not crying," a dark growl made her pull her hand back before she lost it. "I'm pissed off!" Hawke's head slowly rose from the tangle of his arms, legs and body.

"Good!" Aveline almost laughed. "You should be," her face darkened again. "Now what do we do about her?"

"So… You are like… With me?" he asked her cautiously.

"Whether you believe it or not, I've been always at your side, Samael," she uttered and her voice sounded nostalgic. "And no, I won't abandon you until we are all free of that hag," she sizzled and Hawke realized only now Aveline had been dealing with Meredith for years with no one to back her up, to support her. "What do you propose we do about her then?" she asked, rubbing her hands as though she was ready to do it right away.

Hawke took his time before replying, his blazing eyes sinking into hers, his hand crashing with hers in conspirator gesture. Only then he pronounced the words sealing off Meredith's fate.

"We kill her."

oOo

"Stop pacing, damn it!" Aveline snapped at the assassin striding around the chamber like a caged animal.

"You said they'd come. So where are they? You told me they'd be here, but I've seen only you so far and to be honest I don't think —"

"Shut up, you sprog! I told you I've talked to them, trying to make them understand. It's their choice whether they come or not, although that goofy lad of yours seemed rather impatient to get here." Aveline couldn't bear his disquiet any longer, so she jump up and started pacing, too. The voices suddenly burst into the front room, leaving the two of them hypnotizing the door.

Varric, Anders, Fenris, both Feddics, even Corff supported by Hawke's business partner, servants, all of them literally flooding the main hall, making a racket, fixing themselves drinks, scurrying through the estate, anything but talk, or even steal a glance at Hawke.

The room quietened down, whole scene shifted. Everyone seemed to have nothing to do but stare at Hawke with various expressions on their faces.

"So…" Varric broke the silence, enjoying drama and tension in the chamber. "Why don't you tell us how you ended up being Meredith's bitch?" he asked; his voice nonchalant.

"Charming holiday in the Gallows jail? You shouldn't have," Fenris sneered at Hawke who returned that grin, if only a bit shyly.

"If I may present my opinion," Bodahn emerged from the kitchen; trays filled with meals in both his hands. How he was able to conjure this late dinner in such record-breaking time, Hawke would never know. "I have to admit I'm pretty much pissed off and I want that old human hag gone!" he ended up shouting his opinion, leaving everyone very much stunned by his passionate speech. Bodahn left no doubts about how exactly _gone_he wanted Meredith to be.

"Thank you."

Whole room fell silent after Hawke's unexpected voiced gratitude that they didn't turn their backs at him, although Samael had difficulties to look Anders in his eyes, knowing he had more or less betrayed him.

"Fenris, you stay here, since your mansion's been seized and I don't think I can get it back any time soon." Hawke clearly woke up from the lethargy. "Aveline, you pay attention and watch your back within your ranks for they were successfully infiltrated," he continued. "We'll talk about this later," he reacted at her alarmed face. "Anders, please, take a look at their injuries," Hawke's eyes lingered at Hein's bruised face, noticing his eager expression, before they slid to Corff who had been smiling and sipping wine ever since he came. "Varric, if I may borrow you for a minute," Samael turned to the dwarf, gesturing towards the library.

Once alone, they remained silent for a while, neither of them willing to start the conversation.

"So…" Varric coughed and scratched his chest hair. "Are we good?" he summed up this whole situation with brilliance of his own.

"I thought… Well… You seemed… You said…" Hawke had hard times searching for the correct words.

"I've had a lot on my plate back then, Hawke. It may have been truth, those words I said to you, but I'm not proud of what I've said and even less proud that I left you there like that. I apologize. I still am your friend, whether you want it or not." They looked into each other's eyes, their mouths slowly tweaking into cautious grins.

"Shrimpy Merchants' Guild boot licker…!" Hawke murmured to remind him good old times.

"Meredith's tits sucking fuckball…!" Varric countered with properly venomous reply.

They were playfully goading each other and honoring each other with colorful names as they returned back to the main hall, laughing. But the joyful atmosphere didn't last for they all knew what they were facing right now.

"So, what do we do now?" Hawke asked rhetorically, searching the resolved faces around him one by one.

"We'll take the bitch out. What else?" Anders jumped up on his feet, glowing in pure delight. Hawke knew he would need him; his healing abilities, his determination to fight Meredith to his last breath, although his reasons were completely different from Samael's. Hawke knew well he would have to deal with the blond mage sooner or later, but he wasn't keen on being around Anders the moment he learned the truth that Hawke had sold him out.

"Agreed!" Hawke replied after the storm of thoughts, sitting down into his armchair. Nobody noticed he wasn't able to look straight at the enthusiastic Anders.

"Where is Charon?" Hein asked suddenly with innocence only such young boy possesses, traveling on all four to his Master. Samael jerked, glancing at the rug Charon used to lie on. One round tear fought its way down Hawke's cheek and he let it be. They didn't talk until Samael brushed away a stray hair strand off Hein's grim face, standing up and reaching for a snifter of brandy. He had completely forgotten about his wounded hand for a while, but he remembered as soon as the glass broke upon the flagstone, spilling brandy all around.

"Such a waste…" Fenris guzzled his own jug of wine, smirking as red fluid stained his breast plate.

"Hawke! Are you all right?" Aveline asked, concerned, when she noticed Hawke grasped his left gloved hand in an odd manner.

"I am not," he shook his head, able just to whisper his reply. "Aveline, if you'd accompany me to my quarters now…" he asked her, his whole silhouette emanating exhaustion. Once alone, Hawke reached for a blank parchment and a quill, hypnotizing the ceiling for a while.

"What did you mean that you're not all right?" Aveline's insistent voice wouldn't let him think.

"Shhh," he rebuked her, writing a few words, only to cross them a moment later. Aveline fell silent for a few minutes, her leg nervously tapping the carpet.

"Samael, I really think we should —"

"Silence, woman!" Hawke hissed at her, focusing on writing, the tip of his tongue protruding out of his mouth. When he was done, he glanced at his friend and exhaled, massaging his temples.

"Tell them to make themselves comfortable and tell them I'm working on a plan," he ordered her, handing her over the parchment. "I believe you're in contact with the port authorities?" he asked her a seemingly unrelated question.

"Yes, I am. But I don't understand…" Aveline's voice trailed off as she read through the parchment.

"I want you to find at least twelve merchants heading for Fereldan and give them this and tell them to nail it onto every tavern door, every city board, every damned Chantry board they would stumble over during their travels." Hawke stalked to the vault and pulled out several pouches of silver coins, hurling them at the Guards-Captain one by one.

"Hawke, is this… A poem?" Aveline hid the pouches in her pockets, looking at the parchment and Hawke in frantic turns, bewildered.

"Come on, Aveline. Don't snoop, just do it. Please," he pleaded with her, trying to take the parchment from her, but she wouldn't let him, reading the words written on it out loud.

_A little proud hawk_

_Sailing the skies_

_Spotted a fawn_

_A second later_

_The fawn was gone_

_Lovely fawn, guilty fawn_

_You're sorely missed_

_Hawk's wailing cries_

_Of solitude and lies_

_Vanished in the mist_

Only then, after that last word ceremonially pronounced, Aveline burst out guffawing until she sprawled over the table, pounding it, and brushing away the hysteric tears of joy. Hawke murdered her with one annihilating gaze, ripping the poem out of her hand, coldly waiting for her to calm down.

"Enjoying yourself?" he sizzled at her, observing his fingernails in cold demeanor. Another salve of laughter was her reply.

"I always knew you have many talents, Samael, but you're no bard. Or at least I thought so until now," she chortled relentlessly. Her laughter died away as soon as she realized what that parchment represented.

It was no poem.

It was desperate call for help.

Samael was trying to find Fawn and lure him back to Kirkwall. The poem kind of described the whole relationship between the Champion of Kirkwall and the Hero of Fereldan.

Realizing what Hawke needed of her and why, Aveline nodded, cautiously taking the parchment from him again and folding it with respect.

"Some other smart comments I should expect from you?" he sardonically asked, collapsing into the bed.

"Get some rest, my dear," Aveline whispered and blew off the candles, tucking blanket around Hawke's body in sisterly gesture. "I'll take care of it."

"Hum," Samael mumbled in reply, half-asleep already.

Aveline watched over him for a while, shaking her head several times about the events of that day.

"Little proud hawk, sailing the skies, spotted a fawn, a second later, the fawn was gone," she quietly recited the simple rhymes. "What will you surprise me with tomorrow, little Hawke?" she whispered before she left.


	8. Chapter 8

_I can't sleep… I can't sleep… He's here…Elgar'Nan… I can't sleep…_

Merrill was roving around the Dalish camp, clutching her head in despair. It was as though the whole of Sundermount decided to mirror her tension that night. The restless wind howled through the forked mountainside, billowing the canvases of tents, and the peaceful rivulet streaming through the camp was swollen after several summer squalls scourged Kirkwall and its environs recently. The Keeper winced when the gust of salty wind ruffled her dark hair, bringing a distant neigh to her ears. This single, barely audible sound was enough to push Merrill past her self-control and her hands erupted into flames.

One particular evening had stolen Merrill's sleep two months ago. The evening when Hawke came to explain his involvement with the Templars and she refused to even see him; let alone listen to him. She had him banished from her camp and all he could do was to helplessly watch as Veryan wrapped his filthy arm around Merrill's petite shoulders and led her out of his sight while all hunters gathered around him, challenging the shemlen to be unwise enough to pick a fight with a mob of skilled and unrelenting Elvhenan warriors.

Well, Hawke considered himself foolish enough to attack them, but that wouldn't help with explaining how he had ended up standing on the Gallows courtyard with Meredith who announced that Hawke was the new Viscount-to-be in a few weeks. After his forced departure from Sundermount, Samael wrote dozens of letters for Merrill. Malevolent letters, accusatory letters, plaintive letters; the letters he knew she would never read because his pride wouldn't let him sent them to her. Merrill was obviously more than willing to believe Hawke chose to freely cooperate with Meredith in exchange for the Viscount's title, so why bother?

"Is it… _him_? Again?" a quiet question startled the Keeper when Veryan wrapped his own shroud around her slender figure, oblivious to her hands wielding the fire right now. Veryan's question was answered a second later when a silhouette of the rearing stallion materialized on a horizon; the rider's long hair were streaming in wind and catching the moonlight.

"It's _always_ him, isn't it?" was her bitter reply when she turned to her First whose silver hair shone in dark. Maybe it was Veryan's serenity what forced Merrill to clench her hands into small fists and the fire within then fizzed and went out.

"Merrill —" Veryan reached for her but her eyes narrowed in disagreement with such intimacy and she dodged his touch.

"Keeper," Veryan coughed in uneasiness and pulled the guilty hand back. "You've never told me what happened the night you went to Kirkwall," he asked. "It looked like we wouldn't even see you ever again, yet you returned a day later in very bad shape, I daresay." Veryan's inquiry was silenced with Merrill's raised palm and she obviously wasn't able to talk about it. All Veryan knew was that a strong woman, a woman full of hope and courage left the Dalish clan that night, but a broken woman returned instead of her. Veryan knew Merrill's whole relationship with Hawke was reaching a breaking point and he was sure the Keeper would be the one paying the ultimate price for her inability to shred the bond with that shemlen. This simply had to end. Hawke… needed to disappear. And Merrill's silence regarding that obnoxious shemlen was driving her First mad.

"I won't stand idle while you deliberately let him destroy you. Destroy us, in fact!" Veryan grabbed her and refused to let go this time. "Can't you see? He's going to doom the whole clan! Shall I tell the hunters to… take actions against him?" Veryan forced her to look at him and understand that unspoken part; to kill Hawke. "I mean, I'm quite sure they could do it without n —"

A fierce slap staggered Veryan, stealing his next words from him. It was bewildering how such strength could dwell in such a body as tiny as Merrill's. Yet there she was, standing tall and proud, her hands once again enveloped with ominous crimson flames, just like her eyes.

"I shall pretend I haven't heard what you just said, Veryan!" Merrill jabbed her bony index finger deep into his chest. He searched her outraged face and remained silent. "We have an appointment to keep," she coldly ended their conversation, stomping away from him to prepare. A little cold hand slipped beneath the layers of fabric of her robes, feeling the warm black annulet writhing in agony. Veryan had a point there. This had to end.

oOo

"C'mon, Aveline. Smack my face with some spicy details. Throw aside that mystical veil of virtue and duty in that grim sanctum of yours. Give me something I can work with! Has that pretty simpleton of yours ravished you in your office?" Varric kept badgering the poor Guards Captain through the whole evening.

"Varric…!" Aveline granted him an exasperated glance; again.

"A table then! You two must have tried it on your table, right?" Varric coated the tip of his quill in ink, watching Aveline in suspense of gossip. Or a punch for that matter.

"Write what you will." Aveline surprised everybody when she actually laughed and poured herself yet another glass of wine. "I'm content," she added when the storyteller kept staring at her with a dumb expression on his broad face.

"Well, that certainly takes all the fun out of it!" Varric burst out, tossing his quill away. "Contentment in the barracks? Who'll pay to hear that shit?"

"Then I should have thought of it years ago," Aveline stretched like a cat. A very content cat.

"Where's Hawke, huh?" Anders changed topic, peering at everybody from behind a fan of cards.

"More like where he's been for last two months?" Fenris snarled and folded his own cards.

"Well, we know what he said when this whole shitstorm around Meredith hit, but don't you think Hawke is kind of enjoying it right now?" Anders asked cautiously and he shrank back when they all glared at him, but then their expressions shifted. Their thoughtful faces were more than eloquent.

"No way!" Aveline was the first one awake from this disturbing silence and the only one defending Hawke.

"Well, we barely see him. He no longer includes us into his business. Hell, I haven't seen him fighting for months! That's simply the truth," Varric scratched his head and used this moment when everybody seemed lost deep in thoughts to pull out an ace out of his sleeve; literally. "Do you want to know what the word on streets is?" he asked rhetorically and continued right away. "The whole city is scared shitless and completely overrun by dark rumors about Hawke's brand new Kossith death squad. When they appear, blood's flowing down the road and Darktown is suddenly crammed with shallow graves. I mean more than usual." The dwarf underlined his narration with properly dramatic gestures. "They say Samael is Meredith's lover and she let him do pretty much as he pleases as long as the Templars' influence is growing along with her ambitions." Varric's voice dropped into conspiratorial whispers now. "Those who dare oppose them usually end up in those pretty graves I mentioned before."

"I know Hawke said we would lay low for a while, gaining trust and reputation and shit, but I have to admit I'm worried if Samael still sees it the same way." Fenris glanced around and spotted the same doubt in their eyes. "He's either that good of an actor or he simply likes how things are right now. Maybe he just doesn't know how to put it for us."

"Well, he certainly wouldn't be the first who got drunk with power," Varric elaborated even further. "And not in the good way," he shook his head and casually played his ace with a triumphant smirk on his face.

"Nonsense," Aveline snorted and jumped up from her seat. "Have you all forgotten what happened two months ago? That Meredith has his father stashed somewhere? That she has her Templars checking up on Hawke and everybody he associates with just in case we might be concocting something to save Malcolm? That her men killed Charon, damn it?" she slammed her fists into the table which disturbingly creaked. "Don't you ever wonder what happened between Samael and that creep Alrik? Hawke's genuinely terrified of him! And am I the only one noticing Hawke has suddenly been wearing gloves for two damned months despite it being summer? Open your eyes, thickheads, before you start to doubt the one who has done nothing but protecting us!" She fell silent after her emotional outburst, panting and turning her back at them.

"Aveline, I'm certainly not arguing with you, but you have to admit —" Varric's conciliatory voice entered the silence.

"Oh, shut up, Tethras! I'm not done yet!" Aveline whirled around to face him, her green eyes sparkling in outrage. "Let's look at you, Varric. You have your room back at the Hanged Man along with all questionable perks of life of debauchery and promiscuity, and I certainly haven't noticed you thank Hawke for that," she scolded him. "Or you!" she turned at the blond mage who gulped. "It was Hawke who has been keeping Templars off your back for years and I assure you there were many times I could have arrested you or let the Templars to have your ungrateful bipolar persona joining the Tranquil club at the Gallows!" Aveline was now shouting, dismissing Anders' protests with both raised palms. "And don't let me get even started about you, you…YOU!" Aveline hissed at the sneering lyrium branded elf, guzzling whiskey by jugs that night. "Loitering at this place for weeks, drinking like a leech and whoring like a baboon, and when Messere Fenris gets bored, he kicks off, rampaging around the city like his ass is on fire, trashing statues, pissing at the Chantry walls and picking fights at the worst Lowtown taprooms!"

Fenris' tattoos had been getting brighter during her speech, until he launched forward, radiating in blind rage, but Aveline was prepared for him.

"Having problems to handle the truth, are we?" she murmured when they clashed in the middle of room with an awful crack and one mighty slam sent the lanky elf flying backwards, crushing the low fretwork table with delicate porcelain beneath his falling body.

"Oh my, Aveline, you do have some unresolved issues, don't you," Varric chuckled, but held that fuming woman-shaped battering ram on the spot while Anders tried to pick up the elf who shoved him away to show his gratitude.

"Take this as me, the Guards Captain, unwilling and even unable to cover for your stunts any longer, Fenris," she spluttered out at him, shaking Varric's hands off her.

"Well, nobody has ever asked you to do that, you rusty hag! And I'll always have Hawke and his protection at my side anyway," the elf countered with a bumptious reply and for a moment it looked like Aveline would break his neck, but somehow she managed to get a hold of herself.

"Oh, I wouldn't count on that if I were you," she remarked and stormed out of the mansion before Fenris could have asked what she meant by that.

"Nice touch, Broody," Varric chided the elf for his violent approach; overlooking the fact Fenris didn't have any other.

"Well, as much as charming this evening is, I have to attend to some business of mine. So if you'll excuse me…" Anders finished his glass of wine, but he didn't look into their eyes when he said that.

"Finally," Fenris mumbled and peered askance at the leaving mage.

"All right, what is wrong with you?" Varric lashed out at the elf when they were alone. He noticed himself that Fenris was simply spinning out of control lately. Aveline just mentioned some of his sins and she didn't even know about the worst of them; like who had robbed the Chantry chapel and pooped in the middle of it, who had torched down one of the Guards posts outside of the city walls and who was responsible for fifteen dead bodies in one Lowtown hovel, including an old woman and two courtesans.

"Give me a break, dwarf," Fenris belched into his face, falling on the sofa backwards.

"— how many of them failed to report?" The front door opened and hushed voices interrupted Varric who was about to talk some sense into that crazy elf.

"Four if I do not count that midget who got himself killed in a bar fight. The lyrium has been retrieved though, so no harm done, I guess. What do I do about the traitors, Kithshok?"

A pause during which neither Fenris, nor Varric peeped a word.

"Kill them in front of their families."

Varric winced for he simply couldn't believe it was Hawke who had said something like that in such a cold demeanor. A frigid chortle which followed that one gruesome sentence was even worse since it came from Hein's young and supposedly innocent mouth.

"Hawke…?" Varric addressed him through the closed door, unable to remain silent after what he just had heard.

"Ah, hey Varric," Samael walked in along with his Kossith giant at heels. "Didn't know you'd honor me with your presence tonight," he chuckled, but avoided Varric's inquiring gaze.

"We were all here, but, well…" Varric's voice trailed off. "I won't bother you with the mundane details," he glowered at Fenris who had been dutifully boozing again. But something entirely else caught Varric's attention right now and it was Hawke's peculiar appearance. He had replaced his common comfortable black leather armor with very elegant saffron silk attire; the expensive fabric underlining his broad chest and covering his arms with bulb sleeves which were stuck in elegant thin deer leather gloves. His waist was adorned and thus accentuated with dark crimson cummerbund and Varric knew the katana swaying in a ceremonial scabbard by Hawke's hip was nothing but a nice complement. Also, Varric would swear the showy shoes Samael was wearing were the last fashion scream from Orlais and their color matched the gloves. The worst part was Hawke's cold-hearted face though; that merciless theatrical mask framed with carefully coiffured black hair with several strands groomed into thick neat braids.

"Anything else, Kithshok?" Maraas halted at the door, bowing his head in expectance while Hein strolled passed him, granting Fenris a derisory glance since he was Hawke's favorite right now; not the elf who was obviously jealous of the lad.

"Nah," Samael nonchalantly waved his hand. "Take your boys out and have fun tonight." Something bitter tweaked Hawke's lips into cynical grimace as he threw his arm around Hein who was dressed with similar éclat. "And I shall have mine…" Hawke's voice dropped to a sensual whisper as his eyes lingered at Hein's eager face. Varric thought he had heard wrong though, looking at those two young men of which at least one of them should have been wise enough to know what they've clearly done together was wrong.

"If I'm allowed to meddle and remind you of my insignificant existence," Fenris scrambled out of a sofa, striding as quickly as his drunk state allowed him towards his ex-lover.

"Not in the mood for your drama, Fenris." A single domineering glance from Hawke stopped the elf from approaching them, but unfortunately not from talking.

"All right then," Fenris cackled and dusted his wine-stained breastplate. "In that case I think I'm just going to have fun all by myself. Maybe I'll wander through the city and maybe even _further_ than that," he lowered his head and watched Hawke's reaction at his caustic words. His plan had obviously worked since Samael turned to him, clearly estimating what was Fenris up to this time.

"What do you mean?" Samael asked since he had chastening experiences with the unstable elf and thus he knew it wasn't wise to ignore him and his devious character.

"Oh, I've heard Sundermount is lovely at this time of year," Fenris observed his gloved fingers, waving them as though he couldn't decide if he got five of those or not. "Maybe even some mages to cut down or have _fun_ with them, as you put it." Fenris' next words were drowned in Hawke's inhuman roar as he darted forward; a blade flashed and nicked the elf's throat. Fenris had no chance to react whatsoever.

"Do… Not… Test me… Fenris," Hawke rasped; their faces almost touching. The elf tried to break free, when the most curious thing occurred – the blade simply fell out of Samael's hand. The elf escaped Hawke's grasp, staggering backwards, watching his ex-lover in suspicion.

"You don't mean that," Samael changed his tone, trying to mask the epic failure of his left hand. All he could think about right now was Merrill, the sleeping Merrill, and Fenris, creeping through the Dalish camp. A blade in darkness, moonlight in Fenris' snow-like hair, mischievous smile on his lips, and yet another life taken by the lyrium warrior, just because he could. Well, that, and his fixed idea that Merrill was the one stealing Hawke from him years ago. This persistent picture clouded Hawke's mind, so he wasn't even realizing Hein positioned himself between the two of them; shielding him with his arms wrapped around his Master's body.

"You think I don't mean that?" Fenris snorted in supremacy, noticing the pure fear smudged all over Hawke's face. "Watch me then," he hissed at Samael. Luckily, a triple knock on the front door prevented Hawke from a reaction he would have regretted later. Maraas answered the door, nodding at his Kithshok before he left the estate.

"I was afraid you've forgotten to babysit me tonight," Hawke relaxed and loosely wrapped his arms around the lad, hurling a scornful glare at the Knight-Lieutenant who cautiously walked in along with his four lackeys.

"Serah Hawke," Cullen looked around the main hall; no sign of conspiracy so far. Just one fretful dwarf, two others peeking at him from the kitchen, one insufferable elf and the landlord who seemed to get caught in rather incriminating pose with his protégé which was even more scandalous since he didn't seem to care at all.

"You did your duty, so how about you scram, Templar?" Samael mocked the diligent young man and headed for his quarters, dragging the all too willing lad with him.

"I am so… _Deeply_… Sorry… But I'm afraid your carnal desires will have to wait," a cold nasal uttered into silence and Hawke froze on the spot with his one leg already placed on a staircase. Hein felt the gloved hand squeezing his arm started quivering; fingers sinking deep into his skin.

It seemed only now that Samael's little private spookshow was complete. Ser Alrik had simply never missed a chance to remind him of his victory at the Bone Pit lakes. Hawke was untouchable right now as Meredith's newest pet, and vice versa Alrik would keep his life for now, because Hawke couldn't risk Meredith's fury over death of one of her most valuable men.

"The Knight-Commander sends her regards and demands your assistance," Alrik sketched a lazy bow; his hand insolently reaching for blue grapes from a pompous silver salver. Letting go of Hein's arm, Hawke bit by bit turned around to face the creep, sauntering towards him. Alrik must have seen something dreadful in Hawke's eyes since his hand reaching for fruit dropped down and none of them spoke for one long minute. Hawke knew what was at stake here. He had been building the relationship with Meredith for two arduous months and Alrik came here to do nothing but ruin it. Well, that was not going to happen. Samael would have his revenge, oh yes, of course he would. But he had to play it smart. He had to allow Alrik to believe he had won; that he had bested Hawke, leaving a permanent scar on his body and soul.

"I am at your disposal," Samael conjured a noncommittal smile on his stiff face, bowing to Ser Alrik as though he would be delighted to serve. Oblivious to everyone staring at him in awe, Hawke turned around and started graciously mounting the stairs. "Let me change my attire," he glanced back at Alrik and even the shrewd Templar was now confused by Hawke's behavior, "into something more appropriate," Samael finished his sentence and disappeared in his quarters along with the boy. Only then he collapsed down along the closed door, allowing the inaudible sobs to express his powerlessness against the man who had destroyed his hand before he stomped on his pride.

"It's all right," Hein rushed to him, gathering him into his arms. "It's all right, you can do this. I know you can," he kept murmuring endearments, brushing away Hawke's now disheveled hair off his face. "He'll pay for what he's done, my Master," Hein locked his gaze with Samael's, nodding in ardent faith. Hawke let the boy to pull him up on his feet again.

Samael looked the boy up and down, before he ran the fingers through his fluffy hair. Tilting Hein's face up, he leaned down to claim his consolation prize, letting the lad to do that last move so their lips could meet and taste each other. The kiss was not aggressive, but it was supremely confident which surprised Hawke. Samael's attire was left crumpled up on the carpet, while Hein helped him into his comfortable set of black leather armor.

"You do notice I'm telling you everything," Samael's hushed voice broke the fragile silence. Hein's hands stopped working on the spaulders.

"Yes," the boy glanced up at Hawke's shadowed face. "Yes, I do," he murmured and jiggled the shoulder protection to make sure it was attached properly.

"You'd never —" Hawke's fingers raked through his long hair in a nervous gesture, "— turn against me, right?" he asked and realized Hein wasn't looking at him when he quickly confirmed his loyalty. Perhaps too quickly. "I'm only asking because you've had that quiet episode, then you were like your old self and now you seem to be all right, then not. I'm not sure what should I think about this mood swings of yours, but —"

"I'm all right," Hein interrupted Hawke's ramble; his voice anxious as he dropped to his knees to place the greaves to protect his master's shins. He shuddered when for the briefest second he thought he had glimpsed Zevran lurking in darkness, ready to strike, ready to kill, ready to force him to finish Hawke off or do it for him. "And I'm coming with you tonight," the lad chased away the tormenting figment of his imagination and looked up with stubbornness of his own.

"Here I thought we've discussed this matter and you agreed to indulge me and not put yourself in needless danger," Hawke scowled and pulled the boy up to see his pigheaded face.

"Oh, come on, Samael!" Hein fastened himself on Hawke's torso while he finished dressing up by strapping on the vambraces and putting on the gloves. "Somebody has to watch your left side, you know," the lad coaxed, but regretted his words gravely a second later.

"I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself," Hawke sizzled at the boy and shoved him away. To underline his statement, he wanted to hang the plain black scabbard with katana to his belt, but it was work for both hands, so the katana thudded on carpet instead. "Fuck," Hawke growled in frustration. Before he could bend down, the boy's hand picked up the weapon and reached it towards him.

"I'm sorry," Hein's soft words caressed Samael's ears while the boy placed the katana on its proper place. They stared at each other wordlessly, but their eyes were speaking for them.

"You stay close to me all the time," Hawke let out those words without thinking them through. Hein squeaked in delight, but Samael's hand shut him up. "No playing hero or other foolish stunts, little Rabbit. Do you hear me?" Hawke made sure the boy had understood before he let go of him, helping him with putting on armor and sheathing the bow on his back.

The impatient cough from the main hall reminded them of Hawke's Templar duties, so he checked on his armor one last time before he reached for door. Hein seemed once again lost in thoughts.

"How's my hair?" Samael tried to loosen the atmosphere; his hand lingering on the door knob.

"It looks like somebody glued a squirrel to your head," Hein remarked at Hawke's tousled long black hair, dodging his playful punch for such cheeky honesty. Ready for their night adventure, they smiled at each other and left the bedroom. Despite his better judgment, Hawke snatched in haste his black ring and put it on. Somehow he felt Merrill's presence that night more than usual and it was something excruciating indeed.

oOo

"Any idea why we are elbow-deep in shit in the sewers? No? Huh, why I'm not surprised," Varric kept muttering during their slow journey. For the last hour he had nothing better to do than striding by Hawke's side, nagging him.

"Nobody asked you to come along, if I recall correctly," Samael barked at him and dragged the inquisitive lad away from what appeared to be a bottomless hellhole.

"Right," Varric sneered, "I had no idea I was supposed to let those two idiots watch your back," he gestured at their other two companions; the fuddled elf cleaning his bare sole and crushing racy Tevinter curses between his teeth, since he had obviously stepped into something unpleasant, and the lad poking a slug with an arrow, giggling. "And why did you insist on taking _that one_ with us is completely beyond me." Varric wasn't obviously about to shut up, pointing at Fenris.

"If he's with me, I know he's not on his way to Sundermount," Samael shrugged and watched the elf droning some lewd tune he had picked up from an Orlesian whore. "As simple as that," he glanced back at the dwarf, realizing he had been staring at Fenris longer than he should have. Clearing his throat in uneasiness, Samael quickened his pace to catch up with Cullen.

"Not particularly interested, but where the hell are we going?" Hawke grasped the Templar by his shoulder, demanding an explanation before they proceeded.

"Here I thought you are delighted to be of _any_ use, my dear Champion," Alrik approached them before the Knight-Lieutenant could say anything. Samael shuddered at that chilling grin Ser Alrik seemed to have always on his pale face.

"I think it's appropriate to let you in on this mission, Champion. We are about to —" Cullen seemed prone to share, but was rudely interrupted by Ser Alrik.

"With all due respect," he bowed to Cullen, but it was more like mockery than respect, "I don't consider it necessary for the Champion to know all the crucial details," he uttered with his usual dominance and turned around, considering this conversation over.

"With all _due_ respect," Cullen's gutsy voice stopped Ser Alrik, "last I checked I was the one in charge of this task. And I'll see it through without needless attention or bloodshed which is, as it frequently turns out, your way of handling your duties."

There was deafening silence after Cullen's outburst. Everybody; the Templars, Samael's companions, the Champion himself, seemed surprised, and when Alrik shut his pipe down, they were nothing but speechless. Cullen's conflict with Ser Alrik was obviously long-term and rooted in past, and it was only now when the Knight-Lieutenant found his balls to confront Alrik and show him who the boss here was.

"Once a prig, always a prig," Hawke murmured just for Varric's ears, chortling, when Ser Alrik hurled an annihilating gaze his way.

"Champion," Cullen turned back to Hawke, breathing heavily after he had finally found strength to have it out with that shame of his Order. "We believe we may have found the meeting place of the apostates and other lowlifes in Undercity."

"I see," Hawke thoughtfully rubbed his chin, his eyes distant. From unknown reasons he felt this rising anxiety, rushing through his veins, choking him. "And you have no doubt a squealer infiltrating their conspiracy, telling you they're meeting tonight."

"Yes, we do," Cullen replied, overlooking Alrik's outraged face.

"What should I expect then?" Hawke asked a question and started walking again.

"It should be huge," Cullen lowered his voice, glancing around in alarm. "Circle mages, maybe even Orsino, apostates, their families, nobles, and we suspect one Guardswoman of helping, too. And —" Cullen suddenly fell silent.

"And…?" Samael arched an eyebrow, watching the Knight-Lieutenant in suspense.

"Ehm," Cullen coughed, "we expect the Dalish to make an appearance as well," he whispered, awaiting a scathing response from the fierce-tempered Hawke. The ring stone on Hawke's finger flared with bright green flash and it was the only reaction Cullen got from him.

"Don't you have anything to say about this matter?" Cullen placed a hand on Hawke's forearm, forcing him to halt. His words were calm and caring and that was the only reason why Samael let that hand stay where it was.

"She spurned me," Samael breathed out the only explanation he had for his lack of interest about the Keeper and the fact she had sheltered two Circle apostates and thus inserted herself in this whole plot.

"Lieutenant," the Templar hunter entered their conversation, his voice excited and impatient. "This is it," he pointed at the trap door which was visibly well-maintained in comparison with the filthy floor, shabby walls and dust covering everything around.

"Good," Cullen nodded and the change in his voice couldn't be more overwhelming. Samael knew there was one hell of a man standing right in front of him; a faithful leader of his Order and a zealous servant of the Maker speaking with him through Meredith's mouth. Hawke could do nothing but fear Cullen would be the last one standing at the end against him, protecting Meredith to his last breath.

"Scout the surroundings, cut every escape route, lay traps, assume your position just as we've planned," Cullen kept issuing orders, "and remember – we are supposed to bring in as many conspirators as possible. Alive," his eyes glinted as they found Ser Alrik since Cullen's last word was clearly meant specifically for him.

"Dear beloved," Hawke assembled his own little squad around him, blinking at the Knight-Lieutenant whose expression was saying 'what now' regarding Hawke's eccentricity and inability to take something seriously. "We are gathered here to cut down some mages in the name of the Maker's holy arse," Samael burst out guffawing along with his men. The laughter rang as planned even among the Templars, but Cullen silenced them with one disapproving look.

"All right," Samael nodded at his three companions and they fell silent immediately. "Fenris, you heard it for yourself. No killing," Hawke granted him a nonchalant glance, but he knew all too well Fenris wasn't capable of such thing. "Varric, stick some bolts into them and cover Fenris and our precious Templar leader," Hawke continued, aware of the fact even the Templars were listening to him right now. "Hein," Samael's eyes found the lad, then he simply nodded since the lad already knew what was his purpose here.

Cullen dropped to his knee and drew his sword, jabbing it into the ground in front of him and leaning on it with his both arms stretched. Apparently it was some Templar ritual since Cullen's men mirrored their leader, bowing their heads in quiet pray. Hawke watched in rapture as Cullen tilted his head up, whispering a part of the Chant of Light. He not only devoutly pronounced each word, he also believed in what he'd said and it was something unprecedented for Samael indeed.

"Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him. Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His children. They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones. They shall find no rest in this world —" Cullen's eyes found Hawke at this moment, lingering at his disconcerted face as though he knew exactly what was going on in Samael's head. As though he knew how it felt to believe in nothing, to desperately search for purpose in this world, but find none.

"— or Beyond," Samael heard himself finishing the chant, leaving everyone awestricken, including himself. "Shall we?" Hawke asked no one particular and kicked the trap door open.


	9. Chapter 9

"Imposed curfews, the midnight raids on the mages' families, dark conspiracies brewing throughout whole Kirkwall, and Templars lurking everywhere we turn — that's the new reality of our time! Everyone claiming otherwise is just another of Meredith's minions! I will repeat it, a thousand times if necessary, that the Chantry veered to controlling the minds of the population and anything else is just a subsidiary effect of their reign. But," Anders bitterly chuckled, towering above the crowd he was speaking to, "how do they do that? What is it what gives them the right to rule? How did they convince us we should blindly obey them, not asking questions nor having our own thoughts, just do their bidding? They created sin, of course! They named our natural behavior a sin and convinced us, that we are but insignificant sinful worms, slithering to seek shelter within the holy Chantry walls, to find those elusive virtuous selves which we've lost the day the Maker abandoned us. I fear we'd —"

"That's blasphemy!" an old gangly man pointed his quavering finger at the young blond mage.

"Is it now?" Anders mirthlessly laughed into his face, silencing the starting debate with a fierce gesture. "Isn't it blasphemy that Andraste preached freedom and ended slavery, yet the mages are being locked up, if not worse, and kept as slaves with no rights whatsoever? Isn't it blasphemy to stand idle and watch our brethren being treated like criminals and slaughtered, while those who should lead us bow to the Templar jailors instead?!" Anders' passionate words echoed in the vast crumbling chamber while his eyes shortly flashed with blue flames. "The people fear what we can do, but to use that fear to bludgeon us into submission is wrong! And they do it with our blessing!" he threw his arms up, completely losing himself in this dispute.

The crowd burst out cheering. Waves of exalting hails washed over and over again the young mage who accepted them with demure smile on his face. It had only been recently that Anders came to the understanding that he had been born to do this, that he was the chosen one, and the only one able to lead the revolution and succeed where others had failed and would fail again. The Circle, the Wardens, the free clinic; that all meant next to nothing to him right now.

"Nice speech, but nothing than hollow words if you ask me," a Dalish woman with long raven hair stepped forward, taking a long hard look at Anders.

"Hollow words no longer, sister," Anders reached an arm towards her, to help her up onto his improvised podium. "This is the hour we rise. The hour we pick up what's left of our pride and fight back. Brothers and sisters, I am delighted to announce that we do not stand alone," Anders glanced around him and he couldn't hide a superior smirk on his face. "We have a very powerful ally," he elaborated and the whole crowd spontaneously fell silent, waiting in suspense for Anders' next words. "He is currently working his way to the highest evil and he'll strike _her_down the moment he would be able to," Anders' voice lowered and nobody had doubt about what evil he spoke of. "I believe we can proceed now with more detailed actions for our cause, but I have one last thing to ask of you." He took a wide stance, searching the faces around him; the faces hell-bent on fighting the war they couldn't possibly win.

"Blights, politics, wars and even nights have a specific way of tearing men apart, have a way of beating them down, stripping them of their rights, of their family, of their belongings, and finally of their bare souls. But only at this darkest hour we finally realize, that we stand tall and proud of what we are! Together we can show them how world could look like with everyone living in peace, in respect of one another." Anders' voice was growing louder and excited with every new word and everybody were looking up to him, hungrily absorbing his words. "So, who's with me?" he cried out the ultimate appeal. The crowd's response was overwhelming. Earsplitting cheers, replaced with passionate promises and ardent support.

"And who stands against me?" Anders merrily exclaimed the half-question, half-joke.

"I do."

The people were falling silent one by one, turning around in confusion and searching for the one who had said that.

"Show yourself!" Anders lost his repose when he couldn't find the man brave or foolish enough to say such a thing in the middle of mage rebellion headquarters. The crowd stepped away from a tall hooded person as though he was a leper. Having no reasons to conceal himself anymore, Samael threw the hood back over his head, crossing his arms on chest afterwards. His eyes catching the flames of torches looked like the fire was burning within them.

"H-Hawke?" the mage stammered and his face darkened when Samael granted him a long, wordless gloomy gaze. By now, Hawke was sick about this whole trip to Undercity. He expected Anders to be here, of course, but what he had found here was a raw disaster and it exceeded his worst expectations. Three Guardsmen, including Donnic, countless apostates of various degree of despair, six mages dressed in the official Circle robes led by a little sly man who was Orsino's right hand, the elves, a Carta agent, the Coterie, the nobles more interested in taking down Meredith than freedom for the mages and the list went on and on. Bracing himself for the worst possible outcome of this evening and painfully aware that Cullen with Alrik were both intently watching him, Hawke forced himself to play the role he was given.

"Through the authority given to me by the city council and as a new Viscount-to-be, I hereby declare you all under arrest for conspiracy," he uttered into absolute silence and loosened the katana within its sheathe which was more than eloquent gesture. No, this was not going to end well. If he knew where the Templars were leading him, Samael would have taken a different weapon; a weapon that could threaten, injure, and subjugate. Certainly not the bloodthirsty katana which hissed about slashing, chopping and disembodying.

Anders stared at his friend for a moment, at the very ally he had mentioned a few moments ago, unable at first to credit Hawke's jaunty humor, because that was what Anders was thinking about this whole impossible situation. He half-thought, half-prayed in fact, that it was nothing but a really bad prank from Hawke. Torches were ablaze throughout the quiet chamber, casting a deceptively warm red-gold glow over the crumbling walls, motionless figures, and elongating the shadows of the stone columns. The Templars emerged from those shadows, leaving no doubts about what side of a barricade Hawke was standing at right now.

"You… Traitor…" Anders managed to whisper in disbelief. "You fucking traitor!" he yelled right before Justice within him broke free. For a brief moment, Samael saw nothing but dazzling blue blaze mingled with black smoke, only then Justice launched forward, swinging the staff over his head in one perfect arc. All hell broke loose around Samael. He didn't know nor did he care about what the Templars were doing. What his own men were doing. What was _he _doing at that moment. What was the brilliant plan here anyway? Slaughter everyone in this place? How could have Cullen possibly hoped to persuade the conspirators to be peacefully clapped in irons and march to their deaths, singing?

"Don't you dare raise your staff against me," Samael growled and dodged the hit. Justice just murmured something indecipherable before he attacked again. Having no other choice, Hawke reached for his impatient katana, twirling it in his right hand before he cut the mage's staff in two. Justice gaped in awe at what was left of his staff and that bought some time for Hawke.

Hawke pulled the mage towards him and sizzled a wise suggestion into his ear, "Run, you idiot."

But there was no Anders to reply this time; only a warped Fade spirit trying to choke him to death with his bare hands. Samael tried to summon his mage ex-friend with well-aimed right hook, shaking his sore hand afterwards, but it didn't seem to work. Justice landed on his back, moaning.

"And we meet again," a woman walked past a lying Templar, sneering about his helpless gurgling as she jumped over the wallowing Anders. "I was looking forward for this," she sauntered closer; her eyes clearly estimating just how far the katana would reach.

"Maker, haven't I dragged you to the Circle once already?" Hawke retorted and let the katana playfully swinging through the air. Oh, he remembered her well; the Dalish woman with hypnotizing eyes, agile tongue and beautiful long black hair just like his at the Wounded Coast.

"My name is Maurella," she wrenched a Templar sword out of some mage's corpse and smiled sweetly at Hawke. "But you can call me Ella," her smile faded as she danced forward, taunting Hawke. Coming to a hilarious conclusion that she was resolved to fight with him, Samael mercilessly swooped upon her, entertaining himself by watching her at first turgid scoff, which was inevitably transforming into an insecure mask, until she looked genuinely terrified. Samael was about to perform a coup de grace, but then something else entirely caught his attention.

_Fenris._

Fenris, skittering around with his usual clamorous style. Fenris, with an enormous great sword in his merciless hands. He wasn't fighting the mages nor did he was pacifying them, as Hawke realized in dismay. Fenris was executing them. It was cold, calculated and vicious. Their eyes met and Samael's hand holding the katana dropped down as he lost his concentration, shaking his head in mute plea to stop that carnage. Fenris sketched a snide bow before he cut yet another poor begging mage in half.

Maurella followed Hawke's gaze, panting, and a spiteful smile curled her lips as she crept behind his back, fumbling for a short blade hidden in her robes. "Who's your momma now, huh?" she rose up onto her toes to whisper it right into the tall human's ear, pressing the blade across his throat.

"Step away from him!" Hein's voice was unnaturally high-pitched and Samael noticed the bow with a nocked arrow was quivering in his otherwise steady hands.

"Hum…" Maurella genuinely laughed at the ruffled lad. "Aren't you delicious," she smacked her lips and Hawke felt the blade traveling down his throat. Judging by the fingers tightening their grip on the blade and Maurella's other hand tilting his head up, she was about to finish him off.

"Step away from him or I'll _fuck you up_!" Hein nothing but caterwauled his demand, leaving just a second for Maurella to let go of his Master before he sent the arrow with her name on it flying through the air. Hawke closed his eyes, only to open them a second later, frantically checking on his body. He half-expected an arrow stuck in his body, but he surprisingly got away with but a shallow nick on his throat caused by the blade.

"You shot me!" Maurella shrieked in panic, her hands hovering around the arrow protruding out of her shoulder. "You fucking shot me, you lepricon!" she collapsed down along the wall, her widened eyes watching Hawke and the lad in frantic turns.

"Thank you… Lepricon," Samael smirked at the stiff boy who was clearly unable to move or talk. Hawke's smile disappeared as soon as he had glimpsed Merrill battling two Templars at the opposite side of a chamber. She drove them away and escaped into another room, tottering and leaving a blood smear on the wall as she leaned on it.

Hawke was not the only one noticing her presence at this very moment though. Fenris' narrowed eyes were following her like a second shadow before they found Hawke. During one breathless moment they stared at each other, then they bolted forward at the same time, though it was crystal clear who would get to the Keeper first; Fenris. For Hawke it felt like he was living right now in a nightmare he had been experiencing over and over again in his worst dreams – to watch Merrill being killed and inability to save her. In slow motion, Samael could nothing but watch as Veryan was stunned by the hilt of Fenris' great sword, as were the Templars thrown like rag dolls out of Fenris' way and then nothing stood between him and Merrill anymore, while Hawke was still desperately far away from them.

"Noooooo!" Hawke's desperate shout resonated all around as he hacked his way through the worst turmoil. Templars, mages, Guardsmen, nobles, it didn't matter. He couldn't make it in time, yet he was bound to try. Fenris glanced at him once more to make sure Samael would see who the one was that was ending Merrill's life. Then he scythed her in cold blood with all his lyrium fueled might. Samael would remember that vengeful mask on his ex-lover's face forever and next sound Hawke let out was a wordless wail of defeat.

_I must… I must… It doesn't have to end this way. I forbid it to end this way…_

Hawke stormed into the room, preparing himself to face his gravest fears while his mind kept frantically generating image after image; every each one of them worse than the previous. What he saw in there left him awestricken indeed.

Merrill, crouching in the filth, placing her staff in front of her to defend herself, her eyes begging Fenris not to do this. She cried out when Fenris' great sword connected with the staff; the very same staff Hawke had given her what seemed like eons ago. Hawke thought the staff would crack, if not completely fall apart after that devastating blow, but it was Merrill's arm what broke first and the staff remained oddly intact, vibrating. Next thing Samael knew was that his hair started flowing in unfathomable gusts of wind, which slammed him against the wall as they were growing stronger. One long scream of pain escaped Fenris' lips when he dropped his weapon and an invisible force lifted him above the ground. There was nothing he could do nor there was any way to fight Merrill's blood magic.

Varric halted in a skid at the door and it was obvious he had witnessed this whole silent combat between that love triangle and he figured what was Fenris about to do to his lovely Daisy. "Hawke…?" the dwarf peeped when he noticed their leader, standing there pressed against the wall with his arms loosely hanging as though he had given up. "Hawke!" he shook him and he had to shout this time so Hawke would hear him in the howling wind which was gaining strength by seconds.

"It's too late…" Samael whispered; his eyes still set at the crimson cloud inside of which Merrill's petite silhouette was barely visible along with Fenris hanging in the air in front of her.

Hawke moved, struggling against the wind, but Merrill stopped him with one intense look.  
>"Stay out of this, Hawke," she ordered him while slowly orbiting the elf still trapped in her blood magic vortex. "For too long you've been hounding me," she hissed at Fenris and all he could do was to watch her and wait for the inevitable. "For too long you've been poisoning <em>his<em> mind," Merrill glanced at Hawke who returned that gaze with horror on his face. "Turning _him_ against me, whispering malevolent lies into _his_ ears, until you finally decided to get rid of me for good," she finished her round, staring up at Fenris' pale face. "I allowed all that, because for some reason, _he _liked you," she dryly laughed at his terrified face. "He still does," she sniveled while her face twisted into a tormented mask, only to start guffawing a second later.

Samael now saw that clearly. This was the outcome of his dissolute behavior. This was his doing. He thought he could have them both, toying with them, using them when he needed them, throwing them away when he had no use for them. Too arrogant, too self-conceited to see how he had been destroying them both. Now they all would pay the price for being unable to get away from him. And he not only tormented the two people he thought he loved in his own way, he even dragged a third victim into this mess he had created around him.  
>"Do something, damn it!" Varric yelled at Hawke from the ground since the wind swept him off his feet, throwing him here and there as it pleased. Samael realized only now people around him were screaming. Caught in an electrical tempest blustering out of Merrill's staff. Hearing voices in their heads, torturing them. Seeing dead people who came from Beyond to torment them. Every each one of them trapped in their own personal hell, unable to escape.<p>

But not Hawke. Where the terrible wind was trying to strip the flesh off the Templars' bones, the very same wind was caressing Samael's face, playfully fiddling with his long hair strands. When the invisible claws of Merrill's rage slashed Fenris' skin into bloody shreds, the same razor-sharp fingernails tiptoed down Hawke's spine, filling him with an inexplicable desire to live, to die, to run away until he would hopefully drop dead.

Samael peeled himself off the wall, not paying attention to his hair wildly dancing around his head. All he saw was her. He always saw her. All he needed to do was to walk forward and take her. He didn't know what he would do once he was with her, but he kept walking nonetheless.

Merrill opened her eyes as though she had heard Samael's thoughts, and she looked surprised for a moment when she acknowledged that ultimate destruction around her only a blood mage could have inflicted. Then she became aware of _him_. Walking through the flying debris without getting hurt, approaching with slow firm steps, his wide open amber eyes reaching into her. She misunderstood, thinking Samael was coming to rip Fenris out of the arms of death, but she couldn't let him do that. Not this time. She suffered through Fenris' abuse, silently accepting his mockery, his scorn, his eternal discontent, but not anymore. Never again would she allow that rabid being to hurt her or Hawke.

Merrill had no idea how she was going to prevent Samael from saving Fenris, but the moment she turned on him to do so, something happened; something neither of them could have expected.

The staff, presented to Merrill as a selfless gift from her lover, refused to attack the one whose blood had been circling through its Mistress' veins, just like Merrill's willingly given blood had been slumbering within Hawke for months. Forced to attack anyway, if only to startle Hawke and drive him away, the staff let out an awfully prolonged inhuman screech of unspeakable pain, exploding afterwards with dazzling bright light which devoured everything and everyone around. It was magic in its most basic and ancient form. Immense power which had been unleashed snapped the decrepit columns like toothpicks and the perforated ceiling trembled and collapsed, burying everything beneath it.

oOo

The dust was still whirling through the air when the first survivors started squirming in ruins, coughing and squinting around. The ceiling had collapsed only partially, blocking up the way into the main hall.

"H-Hawke!?" Varric crawled on all four towards his friend who lay motionless not far from him. "Hawke!" he fretted and rolled him on his back.

"You look like a fucking miller," Hawke groaned and hissed when he tried to sit up. His left hand felt like it was on fire, though Samael was pretty sure it looked as always beneath the glove – cadaverously pale and crippled.

"And he survives. What a delight," a venomous voice interrupted Hawke's attempts to stand up.

"Blow me," Hawke's eyes found Anders covered in dust. Samael would have loved to add some other lovely comment, but Merrill chose this moment to emerge from behind a stump of a column, hesitantly approaching. The aftermath of the explosion was dire. Dead Templars intertwined with dead mages in their last row about who was worse than whom. A wounded Donnic was holding the corpse of one of his brothers in arms, slowly rocking him. Maurella was nursing her pierced shoulder. An unconscious Fenris was being slapped by Varric to wake up and, of course, Merrill who just managed to stumble over some Templar breastplate which appeared to contain Cullen's still body. Not a word between them though, when Hawke managed to catch her and steady her, hastily letting go of her afterwards.

They both glanced at the same time at Merrill's staff which lay in debris, emanating the unbelievable heat while its crystals inside of the ribbed staff head were obviously destroyed; bleeding.

"What now?" Varric dared vocalize the main issue here.

"Cullen? Damn it, Cullen!" a panicked voice reached them through the blocked door.

"Champion?" Alrik kept shouting, then he barked at his minions to start clearing out the rubble.

"Do… not… make… a sound," Samael sizzled at the prisoners just like himself, his lips barely moving.

"Whispering 'do not make a sound' _is_ a sound," the morose Cullen started digging himself out of ruins. Merrill flinched and made a conspicuous step away from Samael, remembering only now Hawke was in cahoots with the Templars and nothing he would do or say could trump the pain of his betrayal.

Hawke started striding along the walls like a caged animal, knocking on the walls from time to time and oblivious to everyone and everything else.

"Hawke?" Varric cautiously addressed him, observing his hushed murmurs of an insane person and absent-minded moves.

"Silence," Samael growled at him without looking at the dwarf.

"I have a nice idea," Anders stepped forward with his arms crossed on chest. "Let's kill Hawke," he added when they all turned to him.

"Seconded," Maurella strolled by Anders' side, stomping on Fenris' motionless arm on purpose.

"SILENCE!" Hawke's voice thundered throughout the devastated room as he whirled around to face them. His hand automatically tore the katana out of its sheathe, ready to strike down whomever dared challenge him. He looked magnificent at that moment; magnificently and horribly in his wrath when his eyes glowed in his face which was covered in blood and dust. "Merrill," he turned to her and the change in his tone couldn't be more overwhelming. "I'm afraid this time you won't have any choice but to listen to me," he approached her, noticing her anxiety. A nod from her was followed by the rest of them gathering at the opposite side of their prison.

Once she stood in front of him, insecure, dirty, and yet as beautiful as ever, Samael was able just to stare at her for a moment. He hadn't seen her for over two months and all he wanted to do right now was to simply stare at her in revered silence.

"Hello, Hawke." She was the one shattering the silence with her cold quiet voice.

"Hi," was his awkward reply since she knocked him off the balance with that plain greeting. He took deep breath, though he had no idea what it was he needed to tell her so desperately, but Merrill wouldn't let him.

"Samael," her voice softened a bit, "nothing you're about to say will change the fact you stand with the Templars." Merrill searched his blank face and felt her heart pounding like mad. For two long months she had been resisting the urge to visit him; if not openly, then at least in secrecy. Somehow she managed to prevail, but it took but one glance at Hawke and her determination crashed like a house of cards.

Hawke gulped his powerless roar of the cornered animal, throwing his arms sideways in mute desperation. He couldn't tell her about his plans including killing Meredith nor could he ask of her to run away with him and share his life of an outcast as a murderer, thief, and many other things of which not one seemed positive. He had no idea an insane plan was born in Merrill's head the moment she saw him that night with Templar dogs at his heels. She no longer cared for herself. She no longer cared for her people. All that mattered was to end that agony her life had become. To punish Hawke for being whom he was. To punish them both for what they meant to each other. All she had ever wanted shrank into a persistent desire not to exist. To let go. To get some peace.

"Hawke," she briefly touched him, closing the gap between them. "I can't do this anymore," she whispered and her warm voice broke through his defense like a blade through butter. She sounded calm, though her pellucid eyes looked like they were shedding tears inside. "And neither can you," she continued and both of them knew what she spoke of; the fact they were supposed to hate each other, but the more they tried, the stronger their love for one another grew. Destiny set them at the opposite side of a barricade, yet they kept throwing themselves against it, whatever the cost was. "One of us have to break this vicious circle, Hawke," she nodded at him as if it was all right to sacrifice herself to save him. To free him.

"I'm tired of this…" he moaned into the silence, searching her face and seeing there nothing but deep understanding and volition to end this all for them and free them both from this curse their bond represented. "I've lost track of what's happening to me," he shook his head, raking his fingers through the black hair veil, "my father gone, Meredith at my back, everyone I've known just… Keep dying on me. Abandoning me. I can't… I won't…" he smudged the demeaning tear across his cheek.

"I know, ma vhenan," Merrill brought his crippled hand up to her face, fondly kissing it through the thin glove. This mute reminder of Hawke's irreversibly destroyed hand was the last drop into the chalice of despair since he grasped Merrill towards him, kissing her, kissing her to make this moment last, to feel her once again. He didn't know what was worse; her willingness to be captured and executed by the Templars for repeated incursions to Kirkwall and participation on this conspiracy, or the fact he was ready to stand idly while she'd sacrifice herself.

"I love you," Merrill let out the liberating words of the one who made peace with mundane existence, ready to embrace death. "I love you, ma vhenan," she frantically repeated between two kisses, trying to preserve this moment for the rest of what was left of her life.

"I know," Hawke cupped her fragile face with his both hands, their eyes locked, their souls merging into one being. "I'm sorry, Merrill," he devoured her lips again, "so, so sorry," he groaned into her mouth, embracing her and his feelings for her along with her.

"For what, ma vhenan?" she granted him a sad smile, tracing his tattoos with her cold finger like she used to during happier times. "I regret nothing," she credulously curled into his arms, reveling in that familiar scent of leather and warm skin beneath it.

Merrill's question remained unanswered as Hawke tilted her head up and let himself wandering within her deep green eyes for a while. Then Merrill winced and it was her only reaction at the needle-like blade plunging into her body.

"I'm sorry, because I can't let you do this," Hawke breathed out into her hair, feeling her body as it grew heavier with every beat of Merrill's heart spreading the venom on the blade.

"Are you bloody insane?!" Anders crossed the room, shouting, when he noticed the svelte hilt protruding out of Merrill's belly.  
>"I think we all know the answer to that question," Hawke muttered as he gently lay her down into the rubble, leaning on the column stump with his both arms stretched and his head hanging between them.<p>

_Maker, what I've done this time? I have no time for this! Not with Alrik digging through the rubble to get inside. Not with Hein mewling my name twenty times a minute, probably clawing through the debris with his bare hands. Not with two mages glaring at me and probably waiting for me to turn my back at them. And definitely not with the Knight-Lieutenant watching me first in suspicion, then in shock of what I'd done to Merrill._

Hawke's eyes found Cullen and they exchanged a long telling gaze during which Cullen's expression grew shocked and Samael's face turned into a determined mask.

"Don't…" Cullen shook his head, glancing at Merrill's still body.

"If there's anything human left inside of that shiny armor of yours," Hawke strode towards him, placing his both hands on the Templar's pauldrons, "anything at all," his voice dropped to a whisper, "you'll wait until midnight and only then you'll go to Meredith to tell her what I've done," he let go of the awestricken Cullen. "You'll give me the time to take care of her and get her to safety."

"Champion, you can't possibly —" The Knight-Lieutenant grasped him by an arm.

"I hereby swear to you, I'll be sitting in the armchair at my estate by the midnight last bell ring, waiting for you, ready for whatever punishment you and Meredith would see fit." Hawke freed himself from Templar's firm hold, stepping backwards from him, still watching him. Before Cullen could have said anything, Hawke scooped Merrill into his arms, hitting the old long dead torch with his shoulder.

"Meeran used to send me into the sewers a lot," Samael sneered at Varric and his dumfounded expression when the torch moved, revealing the old door which creaked and a dark tunnel appeared behind it. "Eh, eh, my friend," Hawke stopped the dwarf who was about to follow him. "I want you to wait here for Hein and take care of _that_—" Samael hurled a hateful glance at the motionless Fenris. "Please," Hawke leaned down to Varric's ears, "keep the boy out of the estate tonight. I don't want him to witness… To see…" Hawke peered askance at Cullen who could do nothing but watch as Hawke was destroying what he'd been building for so long. Without a glance at his former friend, Anders slipped into a tunnel, dragging Maurella along though she seemed rather reluctant.

"You!" Hawke barked at the stolid Donnic who flinched and tried to focus on the Champion's face. "You're coming with me," Samael ordered Aveline's husband-to-be. Donnic put aside his brethren's body in revered silence, only then he followed Hawke with his head bowed in submission.

"Champion!" Cullen cried out when he realized Samael insisted on leaving and taking four conspirators with him. "It doesn't have to end this way!" The Templar tried his best to prevent Hawke from doing something very stupid.

"You're right," Hawke shook his head in resignation. "It doesn't," he remarked and they both knew what was the hidden meaning behind his words; Cullen had Hawke's life in his hands right now and it was entirely up to him what he'd do with it. Either way, Cullen would be forced to betray someone and he only started realizing this unpleasant burden Hawke had put onto his shoulders.

oOo

The next hour dissolved in frantic stampede through the fusty tunnels and constant looking over their shoulders. The refugees took a deep breath of liberty once they'd reached the Chantry courtyard and crept into a dead end dark alley, cowering alongside the wall in silence. Hawke thought his numb arms would fall off since Merrill's slender body had became a heavy burden during their runaway.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Samael hissed at the poor Donnic who looked crestfallen.

"I… Well…" Donnic managed to let out just an incoherent ramble. "I didn't think it would —"

"Precisely!" Hawke flared up. "You weren't thinking when you decided to drag your sorry ass down there! You put yourself in absolutely needles danger. Have you even considered what would happen to Aveline if you were captured by the Templars?" Samael kept scolding the Guardsman who seemed smaller and smaller under the Champion's scorching gaze.

"A-Aveline…" Donnic stammered, shielding his face with both palms.

"Right. Now you're thinking about her. Better late than never, right…" Samael droned while he checked Merrill's slow pulse. He had been feeling weird for a couple of minutes, as though he was about to burst out laughing, crying, or both. Blinking, he tried to focus on Merrill's peaceful sleeping face, but he simply couldn't.

"You," he turned at Maurella who had been suspiciously silent for an hour. As though she had been waiting for something. "What was on that knife?" Hawke lashed out at her and when he brushed his finger over the nick on his throat, it came back with a blood mark on it. Maurella's broadening gleeful smile was speaking for her though. "Did you try to… Poison me?" Hawke actually chuckled since this idea seemed somehow funny.

"Don't be silly, Hawke," Maurella granted him a superior smirk, looking content with herself. "Just a harmless narcotic," she spilled beans and stretched in nonchalance, overlooking Hawke's baffled face.

"Narcotic, huh…" Samael murmured, chortling. "So what… You're like taking vengeance on me by getting me high?" he asked even when it didn't make any sense.

"I'm not a killer, Hawke," Maurella gracefully stood up, gazing down on Merrill's still body. "I don't poison people nor do I steal their lives from them," she added and nodded at Anders. "Are you coming?"

"Not quite yet," the mage reckoned. Maurella shrugged and when Samael's glanced up, she was already gone.

"You too," Hawke growled at Donnic who bolted away as though he had been waiting for permission to leave. Samael and Anders kept sitting on cold hard stone for a while in morose silence.

"You're aware of the fact you're an insane person, right?" the blond mage broke the silence, stealing a glance at Merrill. "Hawke?" Anders demanded a reaction when none came.

"I fucked up," Samael whispered more to himself.

"And he sees the light, hallelujah!" Anders stood up, pacing in front of the two of them.

"Shut up, you idiot," Hawke gave the cocky mage a dressing-down. "You think you can handle this, don't you? You think how important you are right now, hm? How essential you are for this ridiculous revolution of yours."

"Ridiculous?" Anders stared in disbelief at the Champion. "RIDICULOUS?" he shrieked and looked like he was just a hair away from attacking Hawke again. "If anyone's ridiculous here, it's definitely you and your boot-licking! I had an impression you've said something about killing Meredith, yet here you are, making busts on her behalf, you traitor!" he pestered Hawke in outrage.

"Oh, make no mistake," an ugly sneer warped Samael's face, "she ?_is_going to die." He said it with such a grudge even the overzealous mage fell silent after this ardent promise. "But I'm doing it my way and as you can see I've been… Unsuccessful so far," Hawke licked his lips as though he was about to eat her.

"I don't trust you anymore," Anders muttered as he was estimating just how much Hawke meant it.

"Good," Samael sizzled at him, "you shouldn't anyway," he closed the conversation when he stood up, lifting Merrill along with himself.

"Hawke…" Anders stopped his former friend and a wave of anxiety ran across his face. "Our deal. Does it stand or not?" he asked the only thing that mattered to him. They both knew of what he spoke of; the deal made months ago about Samael leaving Anders alone as long as the mage kept his revolution to himself.

"Or not," Hawke sketched a mocking bow with his head before he stomped away, apparently entertained by Anders' horror-stricken face.

Samael's narrowed eyes probed the empty street leading to his estate. He had three hours until the midnight.


	10. Chapter 10

Samael was pacing around the main hall at his estate, pressing both of his palms against his pulsing temples. This was one of those brief moments when he took off the gloves and his left pale hand looked rather ominous in contrast with Hawke's tanned skin and black hair.

"To tell the truth, I still don't understand, Messere." Bodahn started gnawing on his hand knuckles when his Master hurled an annoyed glare at him only to go back to his wordless pacing and staring at the tall massive grandfather clock. There was a half an hour left until midnight.

"I can't repeat it all over again, old man," Samael barked at the loyal butler. Maurella's _medicine_ had been circling through Samael's veins for more than two hours now and he'd been feeling weirder and weirder, until he felt nothing but tormenting disquiet and mercurial feelings. The Templars hadn't showed yet, so Hawke let himself believe that Cullen was really about to grant him the precious time until midnight, though he had no idea if that was comforting or not.

"Kithshok," Maaras trotted down the stairs in a haste which was unusual for the always disciplined Kossith giant. "The little one is awake," he tried to explain his intrusion, but he shouldn't have bothered since there were obvious signs of Merrill being awake: racket, bright lights and rushed sounds of _somebody's_ bare soles smacking on the stone tiles.

"Obviously," Hawke murmured, expecting troubles coming his way. He hadn't even finished his spin when a fierce slap caught him across the face, raising a single scarlet welt on his dark weathered skin. Incensed, Samael grasped her by her shoulders, lifting her mercilessly up so their eyes were at the same level.

"Try it again and I'll hit you back," he growled into her agitated face before he shoved her down on a sofa. "Leave us," he tossed an order over his shoulder. Feeling the fresh long scratch on his left cheek, Samael roughly snatched Merrill's hand, turning her palm up to see what was it that had hurt him. When the amber ring stone—the color of his own eyes—stared up at him, he let go of her hand as though it were poisonous. He would have laughed at her reaction as she turned the ring around on her finger, unable to look at it anymore, yet unable to simply take it off either.

"It was _not_ your decision, Hawke," Merrill deeply inhaled, trying to reason with the man who ruined her nicely planned suicide mission. "It was _mine_ to make and you stole it from me!" she shouted out.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Hawke wasn't far behind at the yelling part, "was I supposed to watch you deliberately throwing your life away?"

"Yes! Creators, yes! Just for once you were supposed to let me do whatever _I_ _want_. Whatever _I need_!" Merrill sprang out of her involuntary seat, pounding her fists into her tormentor's chest. "You, you, you!" she kept hammering onto his leather jerkin with her open palms. "That's all you ever think about! Yourself! Have you ever considered I might have different desires than you? Have you ever considered I just don't want to feel anymore? _Be_ anymore?"

"Stop that," Hawke watched her in horror when those quiet words slipped away his lips. Just the thought of living in a world she wouldn't be in… It was an elusive feeling far beyond woe.

"Stop what?!" Merrill lost her last pieces of discernment. "The truth?!"

"Stop… This!" Samael threw his arms sideways in despair. "You tried to die tonight, damn it, Merrill! And I forbid it, do you hear me? I forbid you die on me just like everybody else!" Hawke's shouts were turning into barely human wailing, thundering throughout the whole estate.

"Let me go! Please, let me go, Samael! I can't do this anymore. When Fawn plotted to make me a Keeper, he couldn't have known to what life he had condemned me to live! Tearing me apart with you… Ripping me away from everything I've known… Everything I've built over the years! Hurling me among the strangers who chose not to recognize me anymore! They don't understand me and can't and won't possibly ever listen to me as to their rightful leader… Sentencing me to live a life full of loneliness and endless duties…" The tears were freely streaming down Merrill's cheeks when her voice took pity on her and betrayed her. She was defeated. Overpowered. Captured in a life she couldn't possibly escape; not with Hawke watching her at every step she took. When she tried, he was there to save her from herself.

Speechless, all Hawke could do at that moment was to watch her cry, knowing there was nothing he could do for her.

"Did you mean it?" he asked a quiet question when Merrill's sobs started fading. "Did you really mean what you've said there to me?" he approached her, gently bringing her chin up.

"You mean before or after you stabbed me?" was her venomous reply.

"Look, who's talking about stabbing," Samael retorted and let go of her; peeved. "At least I didn't stab you in the back, right?" he couldn't omit a chance to remind her of her sin in the Fade. "I'm waiting, Merrill," Hawke grumbled when no reply came from her; other than her rapid pacing and hushed swearing in elvish.

"Hawke," she finally halted in front of him, scrapping all the courage she had left to look him in the eyes. "It's been some time since I realized my salvation lies in your death." Time seemed to stop for Samael who was desperately trying to find something positive in her words. Did she really hate him such? Did he curse her the day he had walked into her life? But why would she wear the ring then? "But I also realized," she interrupted his chaotic thoughts, "that I'd do anything to keep you alive," she briefly touched his baffled face before she turned away as though she was disgusted by her own self.

If Merrill had an impression she was allowed to leave as she pleased, she was sorely mistaken.

"Wha —" she gave a squeal of surprise when Maraas and his three tall men sauntered into her way and calmly grasped her by her arms. "What's going on? Where are you taking me?" she kept demanding an explanation, trying to shake those huge grey hands off her. "Samael? Samaeeel?!" she cried out, helplessly swiveling her head to find Hawke again, but he was nowhere to be seen. "Samael, you're the worst thing that's ever happened to me!"

"Likewise," Hawke whispered to himself, pressed against the closed library door. He listened to Merrill's raving voice mewling various combinations of 'stay away from me, blighter' while the room was spinning around him. Hawke would have been willing to stand there for eternity if the tall massive clock wouldn't tick onto midnight.

"Silence, little one," Maraas granted the resisting Keeper a cold hard look. "The Kithshok seems to have a weird soft spot for you, Saarebas, but I definitely do not."

Hawke slid down along the door, chuckling at Merrill's almost inaudible and particularly racy suggestion where Maraas should put his hands, but then Samael's sneer faded. A quick inventory was in order due to lack of time he had left. As far as he knew, the outraged Meredith was on her way here and, of course, Alrik was surely right behind her, wagging his tail and barking in delight.

Merrill was safe and gone, under protection of crude, but reliable Kossith warriors.

Varric and Hein were safe as well, hopefully drinking at the Hanged Man on Samael's tab.

Aveline was at the barracks and her ninny groom was with her thanks to Hawke.

Anders and Maurella were probably looking at this very moment for another place suitable for their screamingly funny resistance movement, but Samael was oddly glad Anders kept his life and freedom; at least for now.

And Fenris… Hawke had no idea how to deal with the elf with lyrium burned into his flesh, but it was more than obvious he would have to actually _do_ something about him. Well, more like he would have done something about him, only if his neck wasn't about to get to know Meredith's sword.

At the end of this somber countdown, Samael strolled to the nearest armchair, falling into it backwards. He hung his left leg over the elaborately carved armrest, swinging it freely as it pleased. All he could do now was to wait. They were coming for him.

oOo

"God damn it, this was a bad idea…" Samael kept telling to himself while he was whizzing on his belly down the wide marble banister with an insane laughter. The fact he was in the heart of the Gallows didn't seem to bother him at all.

He had been obediently waiting at his estate for an hour and a half after the midnight, but no one showed up. Meanwhile, Maurella's narcotic seemed to reach its very peek and that was probably the reason why the doped up man fled his estate. He was unable to sit and wait with a hangman's noose swinging above him. He needed to know what'd been happening; why there were no Templars swarming at his luxury mansion, and he needed to know it right away.

Swaying through dark Gallows corridors, sneaking past the Templar watches and pissing into the fountain blessed by the Divine Herself just seemed too much of a fun to miss it for Hawke in his current state. The statues were talking to him as he tottered past them, murmuring and chuckling. His legs carried him to the dark big chamber he had never been in before. It was empty as Samael found out when he sauntered around, touching this or that while his eyes were listlessly roaming around the dusky room.

"Granny's garters…!" Hawke jumped up when a dark silhouette of a tall man materialized in front of him; motionless. "Who are you," he whispered, trying to focus his distracted eyes at the stranger.

No reply.

"Who are you?" Samael strengthened his voice, nervously raking the fingers through his hair.

Wordlessly, the stranger moved, and his arm was moving along with Hawke's.

"A mirror," Hawke breathed out. Tensed, he chortled at his own jitters, shaking his head in hysteric laughter. "Just a freaking mirror." Thus he missed at first the figure in the mirror wasn't laughing along with him, but he slowly realized it since his smile started fading and his nervous laughter died away. "Who are you?" he asked once more; his voice full of anxiety again. Not just because he had the impression he knew the person staring at him from the mirror in ominous silence. "Have we met?" Samael peeped yet another question just to get rid of the uncomfortable silence.

"Indeed we've met," the stranger replied, though his lips barely moved. "I am you and you are me in so many ways," he shortly laughed, spreading his arms sideways in an embracing gesture. The next thing Hawke knew was that a series of swift and blurred pictures flooded his mind which was already overloaded by the drugs.

_A tall young laughing man whirling around with his black dark long hair streaming behind him in the air, mingling with big pure white snowflakes, and a dimpling baby boy within his arms stretched upwards into the grey low winter skies._

"No, no, no," Hawke clenched his head in despair as though he craved to open it and remove the gruesome memories. Somehow he knew it was him. He was the happy baby, friskily laughing when his father pressed kisses on his chubby cheeks, chafing the soft child skin with his stubble.

_The same strange man, if a bit older now, which certainly didn't impoverish his somewhat dangerous dark beauty. The man was making a fire, grinning at a beautiful woman sitting among the floating colorful leaves which were being hurled into the air by a puny boy with tousled black hair who impishly laughed when a small yellow leaf fell on his father's head, tangling into his hair. _

"Go away!" a desperate groan slipped past Hawke's lips when he was trying to push down the suppressed memories he didn't even know he had. Approaching the mirror with disbelief on his face, the silhouette mischievously smiled at him and Samael realized the stranger was right—they were the same person and yet they weren't. The same height, the same dark disheveled hair, the eyes with exactly the same shape and color, the same body constitution. The only thing different were their noses since Samael had Leandra's straight and aristocratic nose while the stranger possessed a strong aquiline nose.

"_Missed me, son?"_ the young Malcolm uttered a stinging remark when Samael remained more or less speechless.

"You…" Samael whispered. "Ichabod… Malcolm…"

"_Hmpf,"_ Malcolm snorted in an odd lenient superiority, _"call me dad,"_ he rounded it up, smirking.

"Where are you?" Hawke asked the only thing that mattered. "Where did she take you? How do they treat you? Where can I f—"

"_Hush, my dear boy,"_ Malcolm touched the mirror surface with both palms; his voice suddenly soothing and warm. No sign of his eternal mockery and sarcastic sneer. _"I'm afraid you can't help me,"_ he shook his head and fell silent.

"What do you mean 'I can't help you'?" Hawke shrieked and pushed his own mirror reflection in anger. "Of course I can! Of course I will! Just…" he hammered on the mirror surface with both fists.

"_Right now, you should be more worried about yourself, my son,"_ Malcolm folded his arms on chest, giving his reckless son a hard knowing look.

"I'm fine," the prodigal son droned a cheeky reply.

"_Well, let's look at that 'fine' of yours then,"_ Malcolm took a deep breath,_ "high as a fucking kite, half-dressed, completely unarmed, stumbling through Meredith's fiefdom of freaks and bigots two hours after midnight. I predict a bright future for you,"_ Malcolm scoffed and sketched a lazy bow, _"and also a very short one."_

"Tittle-tattle," Samael yawned and leaned on the mirror as though he was bored. He literally jumped up an inch above the ground when Malcolm's shadow just murmured a curse and walked out of the mirror, grasping him mercilessly by his shoulders.

"_I'm afraid you underestimate the gravity of coming events, son,"_ he leaned to Samael's ear, ignoring his fear_. "That deeply worries me,"_ Malcolm continued, shaking his stiff son as though to wake him up_. "Do you have any idea to what dark story you've signed yourself in? It's a high game and there would be just one man standing at the end, my son. And with this approach I let myself politely doubt that person would be you,"_ Malcolm hissed those last words with scorn in his voice, letting go of his awestricken son afterwards.

"But —" Samael kept staring at his young father striding around him with long haste steps.

"_Nothing 'but', Samael!"_ Malcolm shouted him silent. _"There were enough of 'buts' in your life as it is! You really need to come up with a plan how to get rid of Meredith without having every Chantry leech hunting you down for the rest of your life! You need to sell your lyrium contracts and, good gracious, use your fucking head once in a while! You need to make your mind regarding that Dalish woman of yours! And most certainly you need to figure out how you'll get out of Kirkwall once Meredith's down!"_

"Easy to say, harder to do," the seething Samael interrupted Malcolm's ardent enumeration, but their ludicrous row was interrupted by a distant hushed voice; singing. Nothing could have been more absurd at this dismal place, than a slow song filled with unspoken pain, moreover sang in elvish.

_I mar adel, i amar nu_

_Raid evyr a phadad ammen_

_Trî dhúath, nan rîw môr nalú_

Hawke didn't even know he strolled towards the door, hypnotized by the plaintive tune he once knew. His elvhenan teacher from Lothering had sung it one night to him, right before she abandoned the young promising warrior without a word.

_Ir sílar in elenath bain_

_Hîth a dúath, fân a dû_

_Bain pelithar, pelithar bain_

Samael heard himself humming the rest of the tune along with the hidden singer.

"What in the name of Andraste's children's going on here?" a hostile voice rattled right behind Hawke's back. It was just a reflex when Samael whirled around, attacking the surprised Templar before even knowing it. They wrestled for a while, but Hawke ended it when he got the man into a headlock until the Templar gave a final gasp and stopped trashing around.

"_Huh, I don't remember teaching this to you,"_ Malcolm squatted down, observing the Templar's body with perverted interest.

"Get lost," Samael snarled his way, leaning on the locked door nearby.

"Shemlen?" a calm voice asked through the low iron door. It almost sounded as though the prisoner had been expecting the Champion of Kirkwall.

"You might want to rephrase that in case you want me to open the door for you," Samael growled loud enough for the prisoner to hear it, yet he started fiddling with the lock, ignoring his father handing him over the key stolen from the Templar. "An elven mage locked in the Gallows," Samael narrowed the eyes in suspicion when he spotted Merrill's First sprawled over a shabby cot; naked and obviously beaten up. "Kind of a cliché, right?"

"Timeo Fereldans et dona ferentes," Veryan bitterly chuckled without even a slightest glance at the Champion.

"Too bad since I don't see anybody else eager to get you out of here before the dawn," Hawke retorted. "Before your execution, that is," he added a remark he knew it would wake the lethargic elf up.

"Exe… Execution?" Veryan stammered, springing out of his cot. "What? But —"

"You can't expect the Templars to keep their end of a deal when you clearly broke the rules, now can you, Veryan?" Samael sneered, but it was more of a vicious grimace than anything else.

"You knew," the elf whispered in horror. "You knew all along," he impeached Hawke as though he had done something very bad. "You knew and you've done nothing!"

"Obviously we need to talk," Samael stumbled inside of a confined cell. "Watch out for the Templars," he barked an order at Malcolm who had been poking the Templar with his own sword.

"Whom are you talking to?" It was Veryan's turn to get suspicious as he glanced around for Hawke's companion and found none.

"_Yes, whom are you talking to, hm?"_ Malcolm deviously mimicked the elf. _"He can't see me, you moron, so watch yourself!"_ he reprimanded him.

"And he's naked… Splendid," Samael deliberately overlooked the fact he had been talking to someone who wasn't clearly there. The poor Veryan, stripped just to his pale skin, shrugged, sauntering towards the still Templar.

"Creators?! Did you have to kill that poor sod?" he glared at Hawke.

"Whaaat?" Hawke belched a surprised question before he fell backwards on Veryan's plain wooden cot. "I just throttled back his oxygen supply a bit, relax, you saintly prig. He's certainly not de —"

"He's dead, Hawke," Veryan droned a dry statement.

"Well, don't just stand there?!" Samael chuckled and stretched on his stolen cot. "Haul him in and close the door, damn it. The more, the merrier, right?" he guffawed at his own silly joke, falling off the cot afterwards.

"Are you… high with something?" Veryan asked a cautious question after he obediently dragged the Templar in; panting.

"As a fuckin' kite," Samael remembered his father's flowery expression. "Long story," he looked at Veryan's pale body full of bruises, though one bruise on his forehead was simply outstanding; a huge dark purple weal caused by Fenris' merciless blow. "I'd rather hear yours if you don't mind," a sneer vanished off Hawke's face as quickly as it appeared there.

"W-what do you mean?" Veryan stammered, fidgeting.

"Oh, nothing but a humble observation really," Samael threw a nonchalant comment. "I think I found our dear little squealer, don't I?" he asked a direct question. "Our silly Templar snitch. Our sly informer who failed to be sly after all."

Veryan granted Hawke an awfully long estimating look, before he grumbled "Damn it!"

"Damn it indeed," Samael muttered.

"How you figured it out?" Veryan asked a quiet question; defeated.

"I'm a bad person, elf," Hawke's lips tweaked a bitter sneer. "And I can tell when there's somebody pretending to be a bad person as well."

Veryan seemed to have no answer to that as he threw his arms up, curling into himself in the corner. "I like her," he finally vocalized the issue here. "I wanted to be a Keeper… So desperately… For so long… I promised I would lure her into Kirkwall and they promised in return I would walk free and the clan would have no other choice but to make me a Keeper. But when it came to that… I couldn't."

"Does she like you as well?" was Samael's only question here.

"I think she does," Veryan shrugged, watching Hawke who sat up on the cold stone floor, scowling at no one particular. "Hawke," the elf addressed him. "Hawke, look at me," he demanded his attention when Samael didn't move nor talked. "Protect what's yours at any cost, shemlen. Not everybody was blessed with a soul mate like the two of you have been."

"You're free, elf," Samael grumbled a non-related sentence, heavily standing up.

"As you can see, I have no clothes, shem," Veryan frowned at the gloomy Champion.

"That one has," Samael glanced at the cooling Templar corpse, "he ain't gonna need it anymore, I guess," he briefly laughed, but the despondency was more than obvious in his voice.

"I would never, never ever wear something like _that_," Veryan rose to his full height, his eyes gleaming with awakened pride of the elvhenan people. Rolling his eyes, Samael tossed at the elf his own leather jerkin, slapping his bare chest with slightly uncoordinated moves afterwards. A war skirt with light leather boots followed, hitting Veryan's belly and Samael had to laugh as he was standing there in nothing but thin leather breeches, bare-footed, disturbingly unarmed.

"You must be insane," Veryan hissed at him, but he kept dressing himself up, however Hawke's attire was apparently too large for him.

"_We must go, pigeons,"_ Malcolm peeked inside, _"the noose is tightening, the fire's burning behind our asses, the wheels are in motion,"_ he smacked his palms together, but Hawke just twitched, pushing the puzzled Veryan, who had been watching his odd behavior, out of the door.

"Wait…" the elf breathed out. "Seriously, you're going to let me walk free? Just like that? That's kind of non-consistent with what I've been hearing about you, no offense."

"People talk too much," Samael popped out a bored reply. "Either way, you're not going to hurt her, and I'd be a fool to get rid of the only person capable of protecting her at that bloody mountain of yours."

"Protecting her?" Veryan seemed genuinely perplexed by that innuendo. "From what? From whom?" he asked, but Samael left those two questions rather unanswered.

"Just follow this corridor, walk through the cellars and use the trap door in the last cell on your left," Hawke whispered the instructions, raising his palm to silence the elf.

"You're not coming with me, shem?! What are you going to do here? Just —"

"Begone," Hawke laughed at his terrified face and at that moment there was no doubt about it; someone was coming their way. "Shoo, scram, go away!" he cried out, guffawing. The stuff Maurella had infected him with… It was a very good stuff indeed.

"What in blazes is going here?"

Samael fell silent at the same moment Alrik's pale face materialized from darkness right in front of him and Veryan disappeared like a hairless mice's tail in a hole.

"I'm a sleepwalker," Hawke attempted to sound as casually as he could have, but he failed big time.

"A sleepwalker, huh," Alrik almost rubbed his hands in joy. "Sneaking through the Gallows, at night, uninvited, unseen, Maker knows what you've stolen here, you mucky Fereldan. You're not going to get away with this newest gambit of yours, I assure you," he kept gibbering in excitement.

"Here you are, Champion!" the Knight Lieutenant interrupted Ser Alrik who was about to shake Hawke's soul out of him. "I've been looking for you to go through my report again and —" he fell silent as though he had spotted Ser Alrik only now. "Alrik," he gave him a cold bow which was not reciprocated.

Alrik's eyes were literally popping out of his head as his gaze was watching both conspirators in quick turns, trying to figure out what was going on there and how could he get rid of the both flies with one hit. It was only now when Hawke spotted someone standing in shadows, watching the whole conversation in silence.

"Meredith," he blurted out, convinced, that this whole game was over.

"Champion," she addressed him and no one could have missed her eyes avidly sliding along Hawke's bare chest, breeches clinging to his taut body and rabid eyes as he was holding himself back to not to strangle her to death since his father had been standing right next to her with a pure hatred in his eyes. Meredith must have understood Hawke's tension differently since she turned to her both trusted and valuable men.

"Cullen, don't you have a report to finish?" she practically sent him away. A mute bow was Cullen's reply, though he remained at Hawke's side. "You're off duty, Ser Alrik, as far as I know," she then turned to the ominously silent Alrik who had been watching Hawke with a vulture expression on his face.

"Knight-Commander, I'm afraid I have to strongly protest against that buffoon to promenade around here as he pleases as though…" he started explaining himself in his usual arrogance, though Meredith wasn't prone to his eternal discontent which was confirmed when she silenced the Templar with one fierce gesture. Samael wanted to dance around in glee, and point and laugh at that stupid expression Alrik had on his face at that moment.

"We… Need… To… Talk…" Cullen sizzled into Hawke's ear, cautiously making sure Meredith was still preoccupied with that idiot of a Templar Alrik.

"Agreed," Hawke droned an almost inaudible reply.

"Chantry… Tomorrow noon…" Cullen muttered right before he coughed to announce his departure.

"My office, Champion. Now." If Hawke hoped Meredith would have let him walk away along with Cullen, he was sorely disappointed when her whiplash-like command stopped him. The creaking of the door closing behind his back sounded like a death-knell to Samael's ears. There he was; standing almost naked, vulnerable, in the light of a single candle with Meredith in front of him, watching him with displeased expression on her face. This was it. This was the moment she would accuse him of plotting against her, creeping around, watching, waiting for a perfect moment to take her down. Just seconds were parting him from a death sentence.

"I know why you are here," she spoke finally and Samael realized it was even worse than her silence.

"Caught and sentenced then," Hawke dryly shrugged, bracing himself for the worst.

"I know why you're here for it has been in my mind as well," she approached him, watching his reaction like a cat having a perverse fun out of mouse it was about to be devoured. Before Hawke could have done anything, like running away, Meredith closed the gap between them. She didn't ask nor did she give him any sign before she claimed his lips; her hands possessively groping his body and leaving unforgettable scratches on his already shattered soul. Next fifteen minutes of pretended passion were smudged into a waking nightmare during which Samael's soul had been screaming for a merciful death. Laying there was all he could do without vomiting or snapping her neck as though his body was nothing but a tool which had saved him this time. Meredith's greed simply knew no boundaries and this was the reason she was becoming blind to the Champion's stunts.

Reeling through deserted streets right before dawn, in a borrowed Templar cloak, feeling like a whore marked with Meredith's signature all over his forehead; that was Hawke's way home, though he hadn't been tottering because of the narcotic this time. He was sick. He felt ill, stained forever by Meredith's touch. That helpless tremor within his body was back and he knew he was beyond restraint, beyond control. Hurling the cloak which was not to blame here on the ground in fury, Hawke threw up as though he wanted to get Meredith out of him, force that darkness which had been consuming him alive to leave his sore body and soul which was apparently far beyond salvation.

"_I don't know what to say,"_ Malcolm's chilling words cut right through his devastated son who needed much more than an expression of disgust regarding what he had done a few minutes back to save himself.

"Leave me alone," he wildly turned on the figment of his warped imagination.

"_You'd like that, wouldn't you…"_ Malcolm all but mocked his son's despair.

"You forget one important thing here, dear father," Samael was heavily breathing when tried to put himself back together, panting and fuming. "Whatever I am, _you_ made me!" he bawled at Malcolm whose expression turned into a horror-stricken mask as he started realizing his son was right. Abased and dishonoured, Malcolm's shadow faded away, leaving Samael alone finally.

oOo

Entering his estate, Hawke kicked the door shut behind him, leaving it off the latch, striding to the darkest corner of his bedroom. There he sunk down to the floor, his back to the wall, his bowed head on his knees and wept. It was the only thing which could actually give him any comfort, apart from piercing his heart through with a blade.

A blade…

It had been for so long Hawke had pulled out his old friend, yet he knew the knife was on its usual concealed place in an upper drawer, patiently waiting for their reunion. Samael only now realized his little private blood ritual has been replaced with Merrill as she had become his stronghold, his both lover and a person he could rely on. But no more. It seemed inevitable to go back to his old self. To take that little blade and draw lines of oblivion on his skin once more. Left alone in darkness, left alone in damnation. Every evening he died with her at his side no longer, and he was reborn every morning to a world she was no longer part of.

Driven by this single insane thought, restless, his body humming with unfulfilled arousal, craving the touch of the one who was far away from him, Samael leapt forward and tore the drawer out of the dresser, turning it upside down and hurling it away afterwards.

Raking through the pile of things, Hawke found what he was desperately searching for. A blade with a vellum strapped around its hilt and tied together with a crimson ribbon. Well, that was new.

Stumbling backwards until he felt a soft bed beneath him, Hawke unfolded the vellum in a revered silence, his eyes avid for what the piece of mysterious paper had to say to him. It took him what felt like eons to read through the note again and again. The lines on his face smoothing, his breathing calming down, his bulging muscles relaxing, Hawke slowly lay down on his side, keeping the note close to his heart. He was asleep before he knew it and his hands, clenching the note at first with desperation of a man who had one last hope to cling to, relaxed and the crumpled vellum slowly unfolded, revealing several rows of an archaic elegant handwriting text written with bright red ink, curling all over the vellum in its spectacular magnificence.

_What muse doth call that can not be denied?_

_A demand on strength an offer of wit, _

_An appeal to vanity and fool pride._

_Will to be one, whole, made from pieces it_

_Becomes all that is, yet somewhat less than_

_A joining of souls, yet more can'st be found._

_That which has hidden too long in its den,_

_Now springs free, startled as a seeking hound,_

_To find that rare coupling of words and time_

_A discovery, a wandering thought_

_That allow two to become one divine,_

_More than either, and in those two lives caught._

_My love doth call and I am like a babe_

_Willing to come, to be the perfect slave._

An inconspicuous, yet fancy little "F" at the bottom could mean only one thing and one thing only.

Fawn was coming.


	11. Chapter 11

"This will kill you eventually, you know," Cullen drew apart the crimson thick curtain of a confessional, not really surprised when he found there the very person he had been looking for. The Champion of Kirkwall himself; a foul-smelling cigar stub between his lips, his thumb stuffed in a throat of an almost empty whiskey bottle, was brazenly lounging on the prie-dieu as though there was nothing wrong about that.

"Life will kill me," Hawke retorted and grimaced at the uptight Knight-Lieutenant. "Eventually," he added and his mouth quirked in a bitter smile, while Cullen just rolled his eyes, glancing around before he rather concealed Hawke's blasphemy behind the merciful curtain again.

"This is ridiculous," the anxious Cullen sighed to himself when he slipped into separate compartment of the confessional, his armor clinking when he awkwardly sat down on a carved wooden stool.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned…" Samael managed to startle the already uncomfortable young Templar when he dramatically wedged his fingers into the fancy lattice between them. "A lot," he chortled after a moment and put out the cigar on the confessional wall.

"Oh, I do not doubt that, believe me," the outraged Cullen sizzled a reply, punching the lattice so Hawke would let go of it and behave like an adult. The truth was that Hawke was utterly terrified by this allegedly holy place and Cullen was starting to realize that only now.

"Damn it, Cullen, talk to me!" Samael could take Cullen's wordless stare no longer. "Why?" he asked a question that had been torturing him for hours. "Why would you omit to inform your Mistress about my oh-so-awfully-ill deeds? Why would you fail to strike me down to my knees?! I fled the sewers last night, against direct orders and just by the way I took three apostates and one moron along with me! All that, yet you didn't think Meredith should know about it? What the hell, Cullen?!"

"Watch your tongue, Champion. This is the House of our Maker." Cullen's serene voice seemed to work like a charm on the agitated young man. "Just listen to me for a minute," he leaned closer to the lattice, "that's all I ask."

"Ask and thou shalt receive," a mocking voice replied from behind the lattice. "And _your_ Maker, Templar. Definitely not _mine_," he couldn't help himself and corrected Cullen with this tart remark which was accompanied by a whiskey splash as Hawke guzzled down his stupefier. A stupefier, which could nothing but silence for a while the memories of tragedies piling themselves in his head, every each one of them shattering his soul in a million screams, though it was the previous night that finished him off completely. Meredith destroyed him when she dared lay if only a finger on him and that was the exact point in time that Samael realized that he had perhaps lived too long.

"Let us skip this game and be honest, shall we?" Cullen proposed a seemingly simple task. "You are not about to become a Viscount." It was not a question; merely a disinterested statement.

"That's rather apt observation," Hawke attempted to laugh, but he couldn't for Cullen apparently saw right through him. "I mean, for a Templar."

"You're not interested in helping the Templar order nor are you honest about your claims to serve Meredith and this city," Cullen continued and Hawke's face betrayed him, confirming the Lieutenant's assumptions.

"And what exactly are you going to do about that, hm, _Templar_?" It was Hawke this time who leaned closer to the lattice, trying to discern Cullen's face through the gaps. "You obviously haven't shared your findings with the only one who should be truly afraid of me and my… Intentions," he fell silent, heavily seating himself on the uncomfortable kneeling bench again.

"It's not working," Cullen whispered merely to himself than to his unwilling conspirator. "This," he gestured around him as though disgusted by what he had been forced to witness and to do lately, "is wrong. Simply wrong," he mumbled through the lattice, looking for support but none such came. "It's spinning out of control. The harder Meredith squeezes her fist with whole Kirkwall in it, the bigger resistance we face. Hunting down mages, penalizing their families, early morning executions, nothing but despair and fear and mistrust… This is tearing Kirkwall apart. Where would it end? And when?"

"Huh," perplexed by Cullen's unexpected words, this was Hawke's only reaction at first. "And? What do you propose we do about it?"

"Not _we_, Hawke," Cullen pressed his both palms against the lattice, "_you_," he ardently whispered and impatiently waited for a response.

"So all the blood solely on my fucking hands again, splendid! Am I right or am I right, Cullen?" Samael all but snarled the only reply he had for the foolish Templar. "Just get Hawke do the dirty job, put Meredith ten feet deep, so you could tumble into her suddenly empty throne," he kept muttering. "Well, you shouldn't have bothered luring me here —"

"And interrupting the spiral of your self-destruction, I know," Cullen dryly finished the sentence. "My deepest apologies for that," he added an unusually scorching remark. "You don't understand, Hawke," he continued when the seething Champion remained stubbornly silent. "I took a vow, I am sworn to hold the crest and serve Meredith no matter what. There is no escape from this duty and I suffer every day knowing I betray that vow again and again just by talking to you. Concealing important information. Holding a protective hand over you and your men. You have no idea about half of things I've done for you and am doing for you every day!"

"So why do you talk to me then?" Samael insisted on hearing it directly from him. "Why don't you fall back in line, little soldier, hm? Feeling sick because of the shit Meredith has turned your precious order into, are we?" he chaffed the torn-apart Templar.

"I… took… a vow…" Cullen almost wrenched the lattice out of its place, clawing at it. "And I don't expect you to understand what it's like to devote your life to something greater than yourself!"

"A Templar with a conscience crisis," Hawke put Cullen's justifications to silence. "Well, that's quite a disappointment. Are you always such a bore, Cullen?" he practically yawned into the Templar's despairing face. Taking a deep breath, Cullen closed the eyes to count all the Divines, reminding himself he was in the Maker's house; anything what could prevent him from killing that insufferable being who believed in nothing and no one simply because he didn't know any better which he seemed utterly content with.

"Oh, do not fall asleep on me right now," Samael didn't feel like giving the poor Templar a break as his vicious voice cut right through him, making him shiver in something much more ominous than cold. "Because I have an impression the best part is just about to come," Hawke kept nagging him.

"Save that act for someone who doesn't know you, Champion," Cullen retorted with an unexpected vigour. "Now you're listening," an unhappy satisfaction settled on his face when he heard next to nothing from the Champion. "I've _seen _you, Hawke. I've seen that part of you which you don't show to the world, too afraid of what would come of it."

"Seen me to do what, exactly," Samael went all defensive as though he feared what Cullen had to say to this subject. "All I care about nowadays is fucking with young, hopefully hung men, and young, hopefully dumb women," he attempted to hold the wall Cullen was about to tear down and reveal Hawke's greatest weakness.

"Please, Champion, do not force me to say it out loud," the furious Cullen punched the wall and the whole confessional quaked.

"Don't you dare…!" Samael's nostrils flared while his ferocious eyes staring at the Templar through the lattice should warn him to drop this.

"I've seen you with her. Oh yes, the _Keeper_, Hawke. I've seen how you behave when you're near her, how you keep struggling against yourself to keep away from her. How you desperately hide behind the mask of an indecent man, a bad son, a disastrous friend and a rascal. How you don't believe in anything simply because you don't want to. And for what? What could possibly —"

"Shut the fuck up!" Hawke's voice echoed throughout the Chantry and a few lay Sisters peacefully strolling around glanced at the confessional with their eyebrows raised in both query and indignation. The both men then remained silent for a long time, their chests heaving in anger calming down, their hot heads cooling off, though neither of them came up with a plain thought to simply stand up and leave.

"Are you going to finally clarify it for me or does the cowardice of pragmatism rule today?" Hawke finally dared speak up, but what he dared not was to look Cullen in the eye.

"Hawke," Cullen leaned as close to the lattice as he could, "you must widen your gaze. You must finally acknowledge there's no one else here who has the power to deal with Meredith. Not me, not the apostates, not Elthina and definitely not the nobles. You. Only you. And now I do worry," he rasped as his voice was getting quieter and quieter. "Behind that mask of yours, I sense a frailty and that could easily doom you as much as the rest of us. And I won't tell lies, Hawke. I'm not going to help you. No one shall help you, but every one shall celebrate the day you free us from her."

"But why?" Letting himself off guard, absolutely carried away by Cullen's passionate speech, Hawke clutched his head in beseeching despair. "Why does it have to be me? It's been always me! Why won't you help me? Why won't anyone help me? Why won't somebody else deal with this mess? Why can't I just run away? Why…" Samael's voice cracked when he couldn't go on anymore, vaguely realizing there was no answer to his questions anyway.

"Because you're not that person anymore, Hawke. Oh yes, you've changed whether you know it or not. Whether you want it or not," Cullen's soothing voice shook Samael's very center of his being as his hands slowly let go of his head when he looked in rapture at the Templar. "I believe in you, now, when I've seen the real you, and I shall believe in you even when I stand against you with my sword and shield raised to protect the Knight-Commander. And know this, Champion, that I will be there. I will be there at the end, standing right between you and Meredith just as the Order dictates, and you'll run me through with that famous sword of yours before you turn on Meredith."

"But why?" Hawke's voice trembled when he tried to grasp the magnitude of Cullen's dreadful words. "Why would you protect her even when you know just like me what is she capable of? What she's done to you, to me, to myriads of people?"

"Because I'm a Templar!" Cullen's widened eyes burnt their way into Hawke's soul and he would never forget that appalling gaze until his longest death. "I'm a Templar and that's what I do!"

A deafening silence shrouded the confessional after those words and it remained intact even when the two of them re-emerged from the purgatory they had just been to; cleansed.

"Farewell, Champion," Cullen offered his hand to the taciturn young man. He stood magnificent and proud in his polished armor and Samael could nothing but admire the man whose honor and allegiance weren't just empty words for him.

"Farewell, Templar," Hawke reached his hand towards him, hesitant, insatiated with the outcome of this meeting. Then their paths parted since there was nothing left to say. Not with the words.

oOo

The pompous soirées at Hawke estate were legendary by now and not just because of the long tables laid out with mouthwatering repast, flagons of rich strong wines begging to be opened and savoured or other exotic dainties of various colors, shapes and tastes. None of Hightown's virtuously corrupted families was keen on pointing out these debauched binges were clearly financed out of the lyrium trade Hawke had become the king of as long as they were invited to them.

This particular evening was seemingly no different from the previous ones. Every honorable guest, all dressed-up and prissy, was ceremonially greeted by Hawke's trusted friend and business partner Varric Tethras whose light smirk was the only portent of the inevitable – that the very same respectable citizen of Kirkwall would scuttle around the estate several hours later; probably half-naked, drunk as hell and with some whore on his arm. Hawke did love the whores and they loved him back, though an unbiased witness of these events would have to admit Samael had become more of an observer and manipulator, than a direct participant of these orgies.

Musicians were caressing their instruments, salvos of boisterous laughter rang in uneven intervals out of the wide open windows and conversation was tossed between the nobs, often resulting into exuberant pranks and teasing. There was one particular place though, which everybody carefully avoided and somehow didn't even dare look at it as if the place itself wasn't there indeed. A pavilion wreathed with heavy velvet draperies, the color of the raging sea in twilight, which seemed like a place perfect for conspiracies and trysts since it was cleverly shielded from the eyes and ears of others. Yet everyone knew who it was lounging in there on a huge sofa; his head nestled in a lap of his young lover and protégé, who kept picking delicacies from the tray and feeding them to him.

"See? I told you the Nevarrans know what they're doing when it comes to confectionery. You kept bitching about how these candies sucked all along, yet you ate every single one of them," Hein chided his Master who sneered up at him, ruffling his carefully done hair.

"Well, I had to be sure they all sucked, didn't I?" Samael let out a brief chuckle and some of those worried lines on his face smoothed out and didn't re-appear.

"Why don't you go on a stroll?" the boy suggested and carelessly brushed a thin hair braid out of Hawke's face. "You've been holed up on this damn couch for hours," he yawned and reached for a glass of wine.

"Are you insane?" Hawke snorted. "They would have torn me apart," he muttered and that light smile on his face vanished in a blink of an eye. "Who wouldn't want to bed the future Viscount who happens to be disgustingly rich and powerful to begin with," he droned and hid his face under Hein's warm, protective palm.

"Hum, if you put it _that _way…" Hein uttered with a dreamy expression on his face from which he had been awakened by a well-aimed soft punch. As they hand-in-hand emerged from their private pavilion, the most peculiar scene had caught their eyes instantly.

The panting dwarf with a long thin smoldering cigar between his teeth, his flashy jerkin unbuttoned or ripped apart, a giggling whore sitting on each of his sturdy shoulders while the brave dwarf kept balancing on his short legs, making funny noises as he struggled to remain standing. When the Champion appeared in the middle of this scene, he unintentionally snatched all the attention which disconcerted the already tipsy dwarf, so the whole construct made of bodies, long hair and giggles, quite ingloriously collapsed down.

"My, my…" Samael shook his head in pretended reprimand, "you're a sneaky little man-whore, Varric, aren't you," he held an arm towards the dwarf squirming on the rug, guffawing his ass off.

"I've learned from the very best, you know," Varric burst out laughing once again as he was pulled up to his teetering legs.

"That you did, my friend," Samael gave him his most courtly bow and his arm gracefully swept the air. "A mirror, I presume," he added and easily dodged Varric's fist carrying the reply for that cheeky comment.

As the landlord with his preening protégé moved forward into a large, bright room, it was just as Samael had predicted – they were immediately surrounded by men and women, pulling Hawke away from Hein, everyone keen on getting closer to the one who somehow managed to rise to power against the odds. Maraas caught his Master's eyes, nodding as though there was need for his immediate attention.

"An intruder, Kithshok," the giant grumbled and his bottomless eyes contently roved over the crowd who carefully avoided him and fell silent just because the Kossith warrior bothered looking their way.

"Let me guess, he's an elf with strange tattoos, he talks the way even the crudest pirate would blush and he has no invitation whatsoever," Hawke sighed and hastily closed the door leading to the vast entrance hall so the guests wouldn't notice the commotion by the front door.

"Shall I let him enter or would you have me kill him for you?" Maraas expected a clear order regarding the interloper, but Samael hesitated. He had a bloody good reason not to invite his ex-lover tonight; the very night after his attempt to end Merrill's life right in front of him out of spite. Just as this tormenting memory flashed through Hawke's mind, he had to lean on the wall with both his arms stretched, inhaling the air with frantic shallow gasps just to restrain himself and dominate over his desire for retaliation. Not to mention even now was his estate guarded by the omnipresent Templars, however they were forbidden to mingle in Hawke's business, but a little murder wouldn't probably go unnoticed anyway.

"Throw him out," an almost inaudible hiss went out through Hawke's set jaw. "I won't mind if you explicitly show him I really don't appreciate his intrusion," he added and rather went back to the main hall for he was not sure what scene would have triggered in front of everyone should he was forced to look at that constant tattooed pain in his ass.

Back among the guests enjoying themselves in any way Hawke indulged them with, Samael felt the pang of distant loneliness and despair consuming his soul and body which was brazenly inconsistent with a wave of laughter and joy which just had washed over him, leaving him even number and ever so taciturn.

"Braska!" an unfamiliar theatrical voice with a strong accent cried out as someone hit Hawke's shoulder, spilling whiskey all over his black doublet with ivory embroidery. "What an unforgivable waste of such a —" a stranger's golden eyes reached Hawke's somber face before they shamelessly leered down his body, "— such a fine chest," the elf finished his backhanded sentence. "Oh my, it sunk right in, didn't it…" he crooned as his fingers danced over the soiled expensive fabric, barely touching it, yet Hawke's response at the stranger's touch was… immense.

"I am Samael Hawke," the young Viscount-to-be heard himself speaking, "and I come from Fereldan." For some queer reason, Samael thought necessary to point out he was not born and bred Kirkwaller. "And who might you be, I wonder?" It was Samael's turn to gauge the handsome elf whose somehow dangerous beauty left him astounded and ill at ease.

"Zevran Aranai at your service, oh mighty Champion of Kirkwall," the elf rose from his deep bow and gracefully reached for two tumblers generously filled with twenty-year-old whiskey. To mirror the Champion's introduction, he continued "Zev for friends and I come —"

"All over my face?" Samael finished the sentence and they both burst out laughing, drawing even more attention to them. "And what might you be doing in this boring slice of hell, I wonder?" Samael kept playing the game, willfully stalling before he accepted the offered drink.

"I am but an insignificant traveler wandering where the wind wafts me, and currently it has wafted me here, where I hear a pompous festivity shall take place soon enough to celebrate the new Viscount on the throne," Zevran peered askance at the young man whose only reaction to those words was a deepening wrinkle between his eyebrows.

"It seems you have better information than I do, elf," the Champion retorted, musing into a whiskey glass. "To blooding and bleeding!" Hawke's melodic voice unexpectedly thundered above the crowds as he impishly raised his glass, emptying it in three greedy gulps.

"You remind me of somebody I used to know," Zevran remarked as he witnessed first Hawke's bilge drinking, then that almost masterfully concealed misery he had been living in which showed through his mask for a brief moment, and eventually the way he had thrown the glass into a fireplace where it shattered to joy of all the present social-climbers and libertines.

"Samael, what are you doing for the Maker's sake! I thought I've heard a —" Hein carved his way through the guests, but his next words got stuck in his throat the moment he had spotted the black clad person standing right next to his Master; impassive, calm, and innocent as ever.

"No reason to worry, my pet," the rollicking Champion grasped the awestricken lad by his neck, pulling him towards him and thus he had missed his quiescent body and widened eyes. Hein lived a nightmare indeed. The day he feared came just like he had been picturing it every night ever since his conversation with the merciless Antivan Crow. Now the Crow flew back, ready to jab its talons into the Champion of Kirkwall who was obviously still very much alive. Now was the time to bear the consequences of the choice Hein had made; to do absolutely nothing, close his eyes and hope the problem would disappear. All he had left now was the absolute certainty that Aranai came here to nothing but fulfill his threats and leave two corpses behind him only to head to Nevarra where he would round off his eerie journey by killing Hein's family.

Looking at Samael Hawke, Hein's unexpected benefactor and even more unexpected lover, a nonchalant smile on his lips as he sauntered around his tremendous estate, people eagerly listening to anything he had to say, watching him in revered silence, it suddenly dawned to the desperate lad what needed to be done. What had been obviously necessary to do weeks ago, yet there still remained some fleeting hope that not everything had been lost the moment Zevran set foot in Kirkwall.

Hein's eyes found the charming Crow who was in the middle of a witty conversation with Madame de Louncet and Hein shuddered when those golden eyes pierced him through as Zevran politely laughed at something he had heard; deep and dark laughter, with no humor at all.

If death were carnate, it would look like Zevran Aranai.

Hein flounced out of the room, frantically pacing around an empty bedroom, wringing his hands until it slowly grew into a hell-bent resolve to put a stop to this morass. Somehow it seemed hard to prepare for a battle which had been lost already.

oOo

"Ouhm, what a night," Varric nursed his head in both palms, moaning.

"I've seen you weren't exactly holding yourself back tonight," Hawke sneered and used a waiting flint and steel to light a taper, approaching the marble fireplace with well-placed logs. The fire caught quickly, shying away early morning biting chilliness of late summer. Aveline went on a stroll around the estate after she kicked out the Templars, saying she wouldn't leave without checking every window was properly closed and secured and Samael hadn't seen Hein for two hours, presuming the lad forgot himself buried in some saucy woman's bosom.

"But you were, Hawke," Varric glanced at the assassin who flinched after this remark; his face blank and jaw set in a lopsided line. "In fact, I don't think I've ever seen you this… sober, if not straight austere, during our lovely carouses. One would wonder what's going on with you, hum?" he uncovered his face, giving Hawke a pensive long look.

"Don't be ridiculous, Varric," Samael retorted and turned away from the prying dwarf. "Nothing's going on with me," he whispered merely to the droning fire in front of him.

"Hawke, I know you miss her," Varric went all in, lowering his voice. "You can talk to me, I hope you know that and —"

"Varric, don't," Samael whirled around with his hands clenched into fists, his eyes blazing with the same unspeakable pain Varric had seen there the day Merrill left him.

"Where's that pet of yours anyway…" Varric grumbled to himself when he figured it would be for the best to simply shut up about Merrill. "You look like you could use some entertainment, you know."

"I am right here, ser dwarf. No need to search for me."

Both Samael and Varric looked over their shoulders and there he was; nonchalantly sauntering down the broad staircase, still wearing his fancy deep red doublet seamed with black lace and silver buttons diagonally adorning his chest.

"There you are," Samael's lips turned up in what might be almost a smile, if only the soft light coming from the fireplace didn't reach Hein's face at that moment. The sagging face, disheveled hair as though Hein had been clawing at it for past hour, deep black circles under his swollen eyes and bloodless chapped lips slightly opened as though in a mute scream. "Are you all right?" Hawke rose from his seat, gracefully setting the taper he had been playing with on a small table, and came to stand before the lad.

"Am _I_ all right?" the boy repeated after him; derisively pronouncing each word and Hawke exchanged a surprised glance with the dwarf. "Are _you _all right?" he asked with an unexpected fury. "I don't think so since you've spent a half an evening whispering with that creepy elf in a dark corner! What were you thinking, Samael?! Do you know him? The hell you don't! Yet you let him pamper you as though you don't have anybody else for this meritorious job already!"

"Ssss," Varric hissed to himself, genuinely amused by this lovers quarrel. "Foolish, very foolish," he sneered about Hein's daring words and he didn't even finish his murmur and Hawke already had the lad pinned against the wall, their noses almost touching, both heavily breathing and both transfixed by each other. "Lesson numero uno, pretty boy," the dwarf threw in a knowing remark, "do not ever question Hawke."

"Shut up, Varric!" Samael barked at the dwarf who was awfully talkative for someone who was claiming to be poisoned by alcohol and depleted by carnal pleasures. Without any previous sign, the boy pulled Hawke down, claiming his lips and breaking through his impenetrable façade. Samael felt the lad's taut body straining up to him, the soft whimpers escaping his mouth hungrily devouring Hawke's lips again and again.

"I think I'm going to vomit now," Varric rolled his eyes and belched and it was hard to tell if he was sick because of the liquor or because of the lovers.

"What's this about, hm, Rabbit?" Hawke whispered and brushed his palms against the boy's flushed cheeks. "The elf is gone if that's what you're asking about. And no, we have not had sex," he remarked and sounded a bit sulkily since his tonight's bed toy vanished into night shadows without saying goodbye.

"I can see how you're _not _interested in that pointy-eared, silver-tongued harlot," Hein burst out again.

Watching the boy with his eyes narrowed, Samael started chewing on his lower lip. "This is not about the elf, is it?" he asked finally a simple question.

"No, it's most certainly not," Hein retorted and marched to a massive cabinet. "Let us have one last drink, shall we?" he asked and laughed a hysteric laugh as he grabbed two crystalline tumblers and started tampering with them while his back was turned at Hawke.

"Not in the mood," Samael declined the offer, watching the boy with poorly hidden disquiet.

"Nonsense!" Hein brought the glasses and set one of them in front of Hawke so fiercely that some of the beverage splashed out. "My bad," the boy grimaced and exchanged Samael's drink for his own. Yes, something was definitely very, very wrong with Alejandro and Hawke was trying to figure out at which moment the lad had gone this mad.

_Hum, as far as I know, Hein was acting perfectly normal until… Until… The elf with golden eyes has made his impressive appearance. An unexpected stranger strolling around my estate, even an uninvited one. How did he get in here anyway? How did he manage to get through Maraas' men? There was this weird aura around the elf, luring me in, luring everyone in for that matter, whispering promises, singing of fulfilled desires and a night to be remembered forever. Where the elf claimed to come from? Well, he didn't get to that part thanks to my rather inappropriate interruption._

Frantically contemplating Hein's odd behavior, the peculiar elf who appeared, only to disappear without a word, Samael brought to his lips a tumbler with strong herbaceous liquor and he sighed in delight as his nostrils were filled with intoxicating vapours, completely oblivious to Hein's widened eyes watching him in a way a predator would watch his staggering pray which was about to yield and fall.

_And that accent the elf possessed. Hum, where have I heard it before? Wait a minute! Was it Sven Sieggbard? Was it, fuck me twice, the Antivan Crow? Oh, Maker —_

Hawke's whirling thoughts were silenced once his well-trained nose picked up most intriguing odour among the usual herbs the liquor was made of. The reddish beverage stirred within the glass as Hawke's hand started shaking after this appalling realization.

Hein. The boy he had spared. The boy he had saved. The very same boy whom he had been giving everything he desired. The young man whom had been sharing the bed with for many nights. And this boy was about to poison him as though he was some rabid dog to be put down. Moreover, poison him with such a mediocre and boring substance as the concentrated deathroot brew was!

Their eyes locked in one endless telling gaze as they sat at the opposite sides of one table until the candles burned low, not moving, barely breathing, just being. They both knew now what was it inside of Hawke's drink. The only thing Samael didn't know was _why_ it was there. And Samael did not know indeed, nor did he care why one of his few trusted friends decided to murder him. Why would he? With the Crows involved, Hawke was sure somebody very powerful was hell-bent on trying to take him out of the lyrium trade, prevent him from becoming the Viscount, or destroy him simply because he'd gathered too much power and gold perhaps… Who cared? Samael did not. Nobody did.

Varric's snore woke Hawke up from that mortal stiffness he had sealed himself in. Just as he started ruminating over the most painful death he could grant the lad for his betrayal, he actually looked at Hein's face once again, his eyes widening as he realized one crucial detail he had omitted.

Hein indeed poisoned the glass meant for Hawke.

Hein indeed brought the glass to Hawke, practically forcing him to take it.

Hein also presumed Hawke would notice the poison and retaliate for this obvious attempt to kill him.

Bur why, why, why? Why indeed? What was it that kept corrupting every being around him? Everyone who dared approach him? Everyone Hawke ever cared for? The answer was simple.

It was him. It was Samael Hawke. That was the crux of the matter, had always been. He was the poison. Not that swill whirling in his glass. Not Merrill. Definitely not the lad both beautiful and dreadful in his devoted acceptance of the inevitable. In his sacrifice, so Hawke would live, while he would succumb to whatever deal he had made with the Crows. Samael knew nothing but death and death he had been sowing around him for his entire life. It was just matter of time until Aveline, Varric and even Merrill would fall prey to it as well. By the time Samael realized he was the one who made all of this possible, it was the last sane thought in his head.

He reached for the glass and emptied it.


	12. Chapter 12

She didn't stroll and neither did she hurry, but rather slid along the Lowtown streets without any effort. Each shadow tenderly embracing her for a moment before releasing her again at the next blazing street lamp. Seeing the place she had been living at for years, and other painfully familiar places she knew, she liked, and she hated gave her emotional shifts every time she entered that forsaken part of the city of Kirkwall that never ceased to amaze her. The misery and despair was yawning at her at every turn, just like lascivious faces of whores or curious glances from the late night streetwalkers.

Her long cobalt blue attire with silver embroidered stars rustled on the white marble covered with yellow leaves as she hastily mounted the broad staircase leading to Hightown, paying no attention whatsoever to the omnipresent Templars who turned their heads to take a look at the woman hiding beneath the hood. Her pace was steady and graceful; her cloak was made of an expensive fabric, so they let her pass, however Meredith's newest edict strictly imposed a ban on trespassing from Lowtown to Hightown during the night. They mistook her no doubt for some young noble woman returning home from a midnight tryst with some brawny peasant.

The hems of her cloak wildly whirling around the corner, the woman let out an anguished moan and she was able to support herself on the nearest column by just a hair's breadth, panting and bringing her shaking hands up to her face; examining them.

"What's going on… Creators… Anyone… Help me… Help us…" she breathed out before her eyes found the silent walls of Hawke estate. It felt like dying indeed.

oOo

Merrill couldn't have known about two things that occurred right after Hawke had emptied the glass with poisoned liquor.

Varric belched; waking himself up since he had been snoozing in a huge cozy armchair by the stone fireplace, overwhelmed by the night of pleasure and debauchery. Feeble-minded, he squinted at the two motionless men sitting at the opposite side of one table and he knew immediately something was wrong. Utterly, deathly wrong.

"Fuck!" a single, yet accurate word slipped past Hein's lips as his widened eyes kept staring at Hawke who finished his bitter-sweet drink, holding the empty snifter in his both palms as though it was his Unholy Grail.

The moment Hawke's eyes flew to the door leading to the basement, it was crystal clear for Hein what his Master was about to do and why. A frenzied race to those doors began as the two of them sprang out of their seats. They both crashed at the door, but Samael simply threw the boy out of his way and walked through it, vigorously locking it behind his back. He leaned on it with his full weight a moment later, clenching his innards since the venom started working and inevitably spreading throughout his body. Troubles with breathing, numbness, then slow ascending paralysis and then nothing but cold blackness of death – those were Hawke's bright prospects for the rest of his short life if he succeeded and managed to keep the intrusive saviours away from him long enough.

Feeling as though somebody kept piling bricks upon his heaving chest, Samael staggered into his laboratory, locking yet another door behind him; this one was low, iron and seemingly unbreakable. His rather satisfied expression on his face was ruined by another unspeakable wave of pain, which left him benumbed and struggling to remain at his senses for just a little longer. Ignoring the inferno raging within his body, Hawke smashed every single vial with an antidote he could have found at that moment and only then he let himself blissfully collapse down along the wall. The end was near and he could but wait. Myriads times before had he been wondering: "Am I mortal?" Now he was indeed.

oOo

"Where is he!? What have you done to him? Talk, you blighter! Or—"

"Daisy…!" Varric halted in a skid by the Dalish Keeper and the boy who was being held in the air, helplessly screeching as Merrill's magic was crushing him against the wall. The dwarf was smart enough to know not to touch the enraged blood mage, but Merrill appeared to be out of her senses, so he tried anyway, but he fell with a crash for his impudence and all it took for Merrill to do that was a single outraged glance his way.

"He's done to him something! I can tell!" she shrieked and Hein attempted to speak up; unsuccessfully.

"What in blazes is going on in here?" Aveline dashed inside since she was clearly done with her meticulous investigation around the mansion.

"The… basement," Hein managed to rasp, "hurry!" he set his begging eyes at the Keeper. Merrill examined him with her red clefts instead of eyes narrowed in suspicion before she let him tumble down like a ridiculous rag doll. The door swung open on its own in front of Merrill's petite figure enveloped in ominous flare as she rushed down the narrow wooden spiral staircase.

"Can anyone tell me what's going on?" Varric kept badgering the taciturn lad who was apparently the only one aware of what'd happened and why Hawke sealed himself off in the basement.

"Speak, damn it, or I'll beat it out of you!" Aveline lost her prudence once she realized the fear on Varric's face and pure dismay on Merrill's face was genuine.

"He… He was not supposed to drink it. It's my fault. He was not supposed to drink it at all…" Hein's voice was hoarse and right above a whisper when he kept saying the same thing over and over again.

"Let me try to open that for you, will you?" Varric gently pushed the elf away from the door knob she had been furiously jiggling with.

"Drink what?" Aveline grasped the boy by his shoulders, shaking him until he turned his blank face upward to face her. "Speak!" she roared right into that stolid face, but her inhuman scream perished in a deafening blast as Merrill lost her patience and shattered the iron door and a half of the basement along with it.

"Or we could just break it down, I suppose…" Varric coughed out a sardonic response to Merrill's destructive solution, squirming in debris.

"Samael!" Merrill paid no attention to his words and jumped over him, shouting out the name that had forced her to come to Kirkwall against her better judgment. Once she reached the center of a laboratory, she spun around, her eyes desperately trying to penetrate the cloud of dust whirling around her, which was choking her and blinding her. It was hard to tell who had spotted Hawke's body huddled by the wall first, but it was definitely Merrill who reached him first, cautiously turning him around and letting out a single sob when she grasped his cold still body towards her.

Hein started hastily fingering the remaining vials stuck in several large wooden racks, his hands smudged as they moved quicker and quicker, his breathing quickening as he started realizing Hawke really thought of everything.

"What did you mean exactly when you said it's your fault!" the Captain lashed out at the despairing lad since there was really nothing she could do for her friend at that moment; other than punish whomever was to blame for the dire condition he was in. "Answer me!" she lost her patience with the silent boy, but he escaped her vice-like hands, staring at her and looking like an insane person.

"I can save him," he hissed at the Guards-Captain who kept circling around him in smaller and smaller circles. "You can kill me later, if you will," he added a venomous remark and glanced at the dwarf, demanding some support which really came.

"Let's focus on what's really important here, all right?" Varric reluctantly muttered and dragged the fuming Aveline away from the boy.

"Keep him warm, make a fire, rub his skin with some coarse cloth," Hein started issuing orders, already going through the bags with ingredients since he indeed intended to brew the antidote himself, even if it was the last thing he would do in his life. "Elf," his stark voice sliced right through the poor Keeper who was transfixed by that waking nightmare her calm evening had turned into. "Less staring, more healing," Hein gave her a nasty grimace and Merrill once again wanted to bleed that human maggot to death.

Unfortunately, that maggot was the only thing able to mix an antidote and save the love of her life who was unstoppably dying within her arms and she could do nothing but withhold the inevitable. Their eyes met a few times during that breathless period when Hein's hands were relentlessly working on the antidote and they understood each other even without words. They could hate each other as much as they did, but there was undeniably somebody they had in common. And that somebody had no time left for petty squabbles.

oOo

"A nice, quiet evening with whores, liquor and rich people. That was all I asked tonight. Was that too much to ask? By all drunk Paragons, was that too much?" Varric kept chuntering while he made his fortieth tour around Hawke's bedroom. He also kept glancing at the motionless warrior resting in the bed and each time the dwarf shrank back at that pale quiescent face, bloodless lips and prominent dark shadows under his eyes.

No matter what earthy remark Varric pronounced or which splendid gesture of tragedy he performed, Merrill remained silent, motionless, breathless, simply sitting by Hawke's side as though she had been sitting there forever.

"And where's Aveline with that sleazy poisoner, I wonder," the dwarf wasn't about to give up regarding to loosen up that dolorous atmosphere. "I bet she's flogging him in basement as we speak and –"

"You mean as _you_ speak, Varric," Merrill granted him an annoyed look, "and you can save that show for someone silly enough to actually believe the boy is here to blame for what's happened."

"Well, I, hum…" Varric rarely found himself at a loss of words, but this was one of those brief moments.

"Oh, don't give me that look, Varric," Merrill burst out guffawing and Varric couldn't decide if this was better than her previous stolidity or not. "We both know he drank it because he wanted to!" she jumped up on her feet as though she suddenly couldn't bear to be so close to the man lying in the bed.

"Daisy, sit down," Varric resolutely put his callous hands on the elf's shoulders and pushed her down on the bed vigorously.

"But –" she resisted, but was silenced by Varric's more or less threatening long hard look.

"I've been watching the two of you for some time, Daisy. Years, actually," Varric started his obviously well-prepared narration, but he was rudely interrupted.

"Creators, here comes the speech…" the elf snorted and rolled her large green eyes.

"Silence!" the dwarf hissed her silent. "Like I said, I've been watching you two and there's but one thing I do not understand," he made a dramatic pause, "why don't you get back together, you morons?" he asked a simple question with a complicated answer. A silence which followed was ripped apart when Merrill burst into tears and it was more than eloquent that those helpless tears were suppressed for a very long time.

"I can't, I can't, I can't, oh, how would I want to, but I can't…" her frantic words turned into wordless wailing as she finally let out the sorrow she had been carrying inside. The power of her despair left Varric woebegone, however he considered himself strong enough not to yield to such human emotions.

"Let me guess," he remarked after several long minutes he had granted the Keeper to calm down, "your so called people stand in the way," he sneered, but regretted his tone right away, since Merrill's hands started emanating an unhealthy looking purple glow.

"Yes, Varric!" she barked at him, clenching her fists to prevent herself from venting her frustration on the pert dwarf. "Yes, my silly Elvhenan nation is still alive and I am to protect them to my last breath!" Her voice had been getting stronger and stronger until she cried out her last words right into Varric's baffled face.

"He needs you," Varric dared peep his opinion, even though he knew it would be for the best to shut up just for this once.

"And I need him, Varric," she took a deep breath to restrain herself, "but don't you understand? This is larger than me. Larger than… us!" she threw her arms sideways and looked at the sleeping man she loved. "There's no escape from being a Keeper," she whispered and her voice cracked as she collapsed on the bed; her head in palms. "There's no escape from being myself," she murmured and her long pallid fingers found Samael's still hand, curling around it. "Varric…?" she looked up at him when she realized he was standing right in front of her, looking down at those two unhappy creatures with a distant melancholy written deep in his face.

"Let me guess, Daisy," he sighed and offered her a hand to help her with standing up, "you don't want him to know you were here."

Nothing but a silent nod of agreement was her reply as she looked down on Hawke's lifeless face.

"To the Void with that, you two will be the death of me!" the dwarf grunted, scratching his non-existent beard. "I think he's seen you anyway, Daisy," he continued and blinked at the elf. "You know, when you dashed inside like an insane person, blew up half of the basement and set Hein's ass on fire; literally."

"He won't remember," she breathed out a response, merely talking to herself as she kept staring at the human who owed her as much as she owed him. "It would be as though I was nothing but a dream. Maybe I have been nothing but a dream to him all along," she gave the dwarf a sad smile before she let her fingers untangling with Hawke's hand.

"So that's it? You're just going to leave him like this?" Varric stared at the elf with his mouth hanging as he failed to comprehend what'd been going on. "Don't you worry he'd off himself the moment he's awake? Realizing he's still alive? And you even want me to lie to him about you not being here?!" Varric's voice was gaining hysteric undertones as he continued voicing his concerns.

"You can't save somebody who doesn't want to be saved, Varric," she retorted and shrouded herself into her cloak again. "I will say no more," she whispered and was gone before the dwarf could have stopped her.

oOo

An insecure pat on his shoulder from the grumpy story-teller, a tray with steaming meal from the old butler and a fierce slap followed by a tight man-hug from the Guards Captain – that's what Hawke's resurrection looked like.

"You could at least pretend not to be devastated over the fact we were able to save you, you know," Aveline kept throwing scolding remarks over her shoulder as she kept pacing around the dim bedroom.

"Sheesh, give him a break," Varric attempted to ease the tension, but it was right back the moment he looked Hawke in the eyes. They were empty; nothing but dead vessels with no sign of the fire that had always been there.

"Where is he?" Samael reached for the mahogany bed column, panting as he pulled himself up on his feet.

"He? He who? Who? Whom?" Varric started rambling, watching Samael's obvious intentions to leave the room.

"I locked him in the basement," Aveline's voice entered the awkward silence, "though he wouldn't talk to me whatsoever. I'm afraid – where the hell you think you're going?!" she berated the assassin when he tottered towards the door, resting for a while as he leaned on it before he opened it a crack.

"I must talk to him," was his terse response, though his two last faithful companions would have deserved much better explanation.

"If anyone is to talk to him, it would be me during a trial where he'd be charged with deliberate poisoning!" Aveline tried to talk some sense into him, but Varric caught her forearm, giving her a resigned shake of his head. As far as he knew, it had always been pointless to tell Hawke what to do and even more pointless telling him what not to.

Samael more like fell through the steep staircase leading to the basement, feeling nothing but disquiet within his buzzing head. Hein was locked in a laboratory. Alone. Locked with the poisons. Alone. Locked with the pangs of conscience. Alone. What was his relief then when he barged in only to find the lad obediently sitting by the table, his hands clasped together in front of his calm face.

"Hawke," the boy gave his tentative master a subtle bow of his head. Samael's eyes kept watching in turns the boy's face and the spotless dagger lying on the table in front of him as he strolled to the long old table, seating himself heavily down. Face to face, it was hard to tell which one of them looked worse; if Hawke as a survivor of the attempted poisoning, or the lad whose lower lip kept quivering and the fingernails were jabbed into the flesh, drawing blood.

"Crossed and double-crossed, I guess," Samael was the one tearing apart the imperturbable silence.

"His name is Zevran Aranai," Hein frantically shot at him seemingly unrelated words. "Yes, you've met him, Hawke," he continued while his lips curled up into a derisive sneer. "The assassin. The Crow assassin. I am to pay my father's debt to the Crows and this debt I shall pay with my life," he declared and straightened up. Peculiar flashes of pride brightened the lad's eyes up as he almost ceremonially locked his gaze with Hawke's.

"With your life…" Samael shook his head; confused, until it dawned to him what the silly lad had been saying. "I'm not about to kill you, little Rabbit," he but whispered those words as though ashamed that this thought even was in Hein's mind.

"I know," Hein nodded and a gentle smile filled with sadness of the eldest people briefly appeared on his tormented face. "I want you to have this," he slowly pushed a worn-out book towards Hawke's side of a table.

"What is it?" Samael murmured and cautiously opened the book; the fragile vellum rustling beneath his rough fingers. "Lord Aristide Amell," he read out loud the calligraphically written name on the first page of a book which appeared to contain the eclectically chosen parts of the Chant of the Light. "But he's—"

"Your famous ancestor who was struck down just a moment before he became the Viscount, yes," Hein confirmed the obvious before he started leafing through the book, glancing at the befuddled Hawke who obediently started reading the page appointed by Hein's gaunt finger.

_Here lies the abyss, the well of all souls.  
>From these emerald waters doth life begin anew.<br>Come to me, child, and I shall embrace you.  
>In my arms lies Eternity. <em>

_-Andraste 14:11_

"I'm _not_ going to kill you!" Samael sizzled at the boy an outraged response as he connected all dots.

"I know, my dear one," the lad wearily stood up and only now Hawke was able to see an almost black stain on Hein's dark crimson jerkin, mercilessly spreading through the soaked expensive fabric. Samael all but bolted out of his seat as quickly as his weakened body allowed him to just in time to catch the boy's body since Hein dropped down to his knees, freely clenching the wound he had inflicted upon himself.

"What have you done?!" a desperate shouts of another human being echoed in Hein's ears only a little. He heard the sea and he was sure he would even see it in a blink of an eye. Until now he wasn't realizing how much he had missed the wild life with the pirates.

"Nothing you haven't done today as well, my dear," he heard himself responding to those heart-rending wails. "I'm ending this for you. For the both of us. I want to be it this way. I _need_ to be it this way. The Crows will feast upon the chalice of my blood, satiated by this sacrifice."

"But why? Why you are the one making a sacrifice? Damn it, why? It should have been me! It should have been me for a long time now, but you didn't let me!" Samael shook the unresponsive body within his arms, vaguely realizing the boy hadn't much time left as the stinking hot blood kept pouring over his hands. The metal stench of the fresh blood filling his nostrils was sickening.

"Listen to me," Hein's hands reached for Hawke's face, cupping it with all remaining strength he had got. "The Crow, Samael. The elf. He won't stop. You are not a mark to him. You are a mere trophy. He won't leave you alone even if you deal with the Crows. You must kill him, do you hear me? You must go after him right now, do you understand?"

"But—"

"Do you understand me?" Hein let out a desperate cry for assurance that Samael had heard about the lethal serpent slithering right behind him as a second shadow, ready to strike.

"Yes," was Hawke's choked reply. "If he's to blame, I will make him regret being born into this world," he murmured a second later, looking straight into Hein's misted-up eyes.

"Good… Good…" Hein's hoarse voice started fading as though he was waiting just for those words confirming Samael's awareness of the Crow's intentions. "As for your previous question, Hawke, you can't repair somebody. You knew I was broken when you took me in," Hein's left hand dropped down by his side, fumbling for something in his pocket.

"I thought… Well, I hoped…" Samael kept gulping the tears streaming down his cheeks.

"I couldn't live with myself anymore, Hawke, because I've never found the way of forgiving myself."

"Are you saying…?"Samael left his next words unspoken.

"Yes, Hawke. You need to forgive yourself. For everything," Hein's eyes were wide opened and shone with moisture. "Keep the book. It's my legacy for you," his eyes flew towards the table where the book was. "Now pick me up, would you? I've always hated the thought I'd die lying as an old wobbling hag," Hein's lips curled into a smile twisted by the pain shooting from an epicenter of the stab wound.

Wordlessly, Hawke carried the boy to the stone catafalque; the very same catafalque that once guarded the body of the Arishok who was the true leader of his Qunari people even in his death.

Samael Hawke, the ragged outlander from Fereldan, the petty lyrium smuggler who rose to power against the odds, the mighty Champion of Kirkwall, the new Viscount-to-be of the city of Kirkwall, could nothing but watch the life quietly creeping out of his friend's body.

Hawke had no idea for how long he had been staring into Hein's lifeless eyes, gently dandling his body within his arms which were about to give up. Only now he spotted a piece of yellowed vellum crumpled within Hein's set fist. In reverent silence, hearing his own heart pounding, Samael slowly pried the vellum out of the stiff fingers, unfolding it. Reading that piece of paper apparently torn out of the book over and over again, the absolute magnificence of what Hein had done for him hit him with its full power.

_Let the blade pass through the flesh,  
>Let my blood touch the ground,<br>Let my cries touch your heart. Let mine be the last sacrifice. _

_-Andraste 7:12_

oOo

The most peculiar cortege emerged from the Hawke estate at the exact moment that the full moon struggled its way from beneath the thick curtain of heavy clouds, casting long shadows behind the silent hooded human silhouettes.

Fallen leaves rustling beneath their feet, melancholic clacking of Occela's hooves, creaking of the flat wagon he was pulling and the eyes of everyone present set at the plain beech casket – that was the atmosphere enveloping Alejandro Belehein Herrera's last journey to his final resting place.

The Templars patrolling around the estate exchanged an alarmed glance before they joined the parade because their orders couldn't have been clearer; not let Hawke get out of their sight no matter what. Samael walked right after the wagon; silent, somber, watching his boots as they kept walking forward and Hawke could nothing but wonder what it was forcing him to carry on. He tried to watch Occela's back gracefully waving as the stallion patiently walked through the silent streets, but his attention was again and again drawn to the casket with a body of his yet another dead friend.

"It's been a while since I last saw you here, lad," a gruff voice came out of the wide open Kirkwall cemetery gate, though they were not able to see anyone.

"Who are you? Show yourself!" Aveline stepped forward since Hawke remained still and silent. An old man, so gnarled that he looked gnome-like, appeared out of dark, hobbling towards them as though they were expected.

"Theodore Kipp, the local gravedigger and guardian of those who don't need any guarding anymore," the old man bared his blackened carious teeth at them, laughing until he started coughing and gasping for air.

"Are we supposed to believe you that you're the one digging the graves?" Hawke's eyes flashed in dark as he peered askance at the old man. "Have you considered digging one even for yourself?"

"Watch your foul mouth, lad!" Theodore retorted before yet another coughing attack seized his whole body. "I've seen things in my life which you'd run away from, screaming like a sucking pig," he spat at the rude young warrior.

"Our business is our own, Messere Kipp," Aveline pushed Hawke behind her back and her voice was steady, yet polite and meek at the same time. "If you'd be so kind and see us to the _Amell & Hawke_ tomb and then leave us to tend to our… affairs," she awkwardly finished her entreaty, glancing at the casket.

"By all means, Milady Vallen," the old man performed a rather comical obeisance in the Captain's way before he turned around, deliberately overlooking the Champion who had been watching him with utter impassivity smudged all over his face and attitude.

If it all felt like a dream to Hawke, then it was a waking nightmare indeed. Oblivious to anything and anyone around him, he woke up from that nightmare the moment Hein's coffin thudded on the last empty catafalque within his ancestors' tomb.

"Ehm," Varric harrumphed in uneasiness when he glanced around the dim tomb which rightfully bore its name. Several decrepit Amell crests hanging askance on the cracked walls, shreds of airy black fabric hanging from the domelike ceiling; ghostly waving even when Varric felt not a hint of breeze and, of course, monstrous stone catafalques with black coffins on them. Aveline exchanged with the dwarf a long perturbed gaze before she practically tore a torch out of Theodore's tremulous hands, intending to light up an oil lamp hanging in the center of the tomb just to keep herself busy with something; anything. Nobody paid attention to the meddlesome gravedigger who somehow failed to follow Aveline's indirect order to leave without punishment.

"Hawke," Aveline gently set an ungloved hand on his shoulder, "if you want us to leave, just say so."

"Right, Aveline," Varric stepped in, openly scowling at her, "let's leave that maniac alone in his family's tomb, with swords, coffins, fire and whatnot. Brilliant notion. Overruled. C'mon, Hawke, let's go," he reached for Samael's forearm, only the assassin was by his side no longer.

"He didn't want to lie down," Hawke brushed Hein's coffin with an open palm. "Lie down and die like an old hag. Would you believe that? Those were his final words!" he let out a deranged laughter, clawing at the wood of Hein's coffin.

"Yes, Hawke, he was brave until the very end of his inglorious and tragically short life of a poisoner. Please, could we go now?" Varric shot a cautious glance at the Captain who managed but to stare at the friend she couldn't help nor did he want her to.

"You know next to _nothing_ about the man he's laying in there," the furious Hawke whirled around to face the dwarf who was once again quick at judging everything and everyone around him.

"And I don't even want to," Varric retorted and started walking backwards out of the tomb since Samael started creeping towards him. "He can burn in hell for what I care!" Alcohol, strenuous night of rakish opulence, certain physical activities, then the whole mess around Hein took its toll at the poor dwarf who failed to recognize what state of mind was the Champion of Kirkwall in.

"Burn," Samael sneered to himself, "yes, burn, burn, burn, burn like pagan gods of apocalypse," he finished his debonair speech and slowly drew his katana, examining it as though he had just seen it for the first time.

"Don't be ridiculous, Hawke, and put that thing out of my face," Varric droned in disquiet and checked just how far those damned doors were. "We've all seen it before and been duly impressed."

His face blank, his eyes looking like the fools' wishing wells, with one breathless swing through the fusty air Samael only incidentally-like slashed the thin chain of the oil lamp. It collapsed with a deafening clunk; oil splashing all around, but the real fun began when the flaming wick set the oil on fire which started spreading with disturbing velocity.

Nobody moved for several unbelievably long seconds, too awestricken to do anything, only Hawke stood in the middle of flames, watching them with pure masochistic delight as they kept approaching him, until they licked the hem of his black cloak.

He didn't resist; not at all, when three pairs of arms grasped him by anything they could reach, and hauled him out of the burning tomb.

"Son of a bitch…" Varric breathed out; his widened eyes transfixed by the horror scene unfolding in front of him.

"Come with me, young man. I sure have something you need to see for yourself." The old gravedigger stood up as though nothing insane just had happened, meticulously dusting his knees off. Samael followed him without a word; without a slightest glance back at the burning resting place of his ancestors, his mother, two siblings and a boy who couldn't live with himself.

They walked through the squeaky wicket which resisted moving and whose purpose in this world was rather bizarre, since the stone wall the wicket was embedded in was barely reaching to Hawke's waist. Once Samael's eyes accustomed to darkness again, his mouth slightly opened, but not a sound came out of it. The stench of rotting flesh and misery was groveling above the ground, shreds of mist playfully floating above the rows of shallow nameless graves dissipating in a distance.

"What… How… Who are they?" Hawke managed to nothing but whisper the only thinkable question as though the ghosts of the dead were present and he didn't want to disturb them.

"The mages, the blood mages, their families, the apostates of all races, ages and manners, take your pick, lad," Theodore shrugged and kicked a small pebble.

"So… Many…" Aveline rasped and made several hesitant steps into the dark as though she was trying to estimate the number of the victims of Meredith's reign of terror and fear.

"A woman of your history and status should know better than to moan like a maiden being shagged for the first time," Theodore gave the Captain a wry shake of his head before his eyes flew back to Hawke who stood there with his arms loose by his sides and a bowed head. So many lives – lost. So many dreams – shattered. So many hopes – smothered. Indeed he could have prevented this unspeakable madness of a single person, but he was too frivolous to man up and step in.

"Do not dare contend you haven't seen this coming, Champion. Do not dare stand there and say to_ our faces _you were not able to stop Meredith. Because that's how all grand words of the leaders of this world always end up; with endless rows of nameless graves.

Hawke looked up in surprise just in time to see myriads of spectral silhouettes emerging all around them; murmuring, pointing at him, glaring, silver plumes of mist soaring out of their mouths as they coughed in the biting morning chills.

"Mages…" a single, yet eloquent word slipped past Varric's thick lips.

"Apostates…" Aveline felt obligated to correct their half-tall friend as they both fell back to Hawke, half-drawing their weapons.

"Careful with that word here, Guards Captain," a tall person stepped forward, "we don't appreciate being called such."

"Anders," Samael granted the mage a surprisingly deep bow.

"Hawke," the mage reciprocated the bow; if only a bit sardonically. "Making a bonfire tonight, are we…?" he asked no one particular, nodding towards the burning away tomb. "So?" he nodded at the Champion.

"I'll stop her," an almost inaudible response came from Hawke.

"Yeah, I've heard that one before," Anders grimaced.

"It's different now," Samael shook his head, stepping forward and oblivious to the mages who straightened up and those of them, who possessed a staff, drew it. "This time I _want_ to stop her," he made yet another step forward, so he stood right in front of the mage. They studied each other for a very long time, until Anders finally seemed to find an answer for that ardent promise.

"I believe you," he simply stated and stopped the waves of protest coming from his fellow mages. "But know this, Hawke," he gestured around them, "we will raze Kirkwall if you do not live up to this promise. I swear we will march towards the Gallows and break it down or Meredith would break us down instead. If you do nothing, then we will rise and we will remove the chance for a compromise since there's really no compromise here, is there?"

"Wait for the coronation. That's all I ask," Hawke put everything on one card and one card only, since he was not without a plan already. Oh, how easily could Anders and his flunkeys ruin everything!

"All right," Anders gave him a hesitant reply as he watched Hawke with his eyes narrowed in both suspicion and incredulity.

"All right then," Samael echoed the mage and they sealed the deal with a firm handshake. "We're leaving," he threw a nonchalant comment at his dumbfounded companions and gladly leave that dismal place they did.

oOo

"Oh shit, what now?" Varric desperately groaned as they wordlessly walked back to Hawke estate; Samael riding on the gaiting Occela who looked rather bored. First that demeaning wagon, now this slow night walk; what a night for the restless stallion!

A lonesome person stood in their way; motionless, hidden beneath the heavy dusty cloak of a traveler.

"Hawke!" Aveline sizzled at him when he dismounted the horse and strode to the stranger without hesitation.

"I've had just enough of drama, thank you very much," Varric let out a tormented sigh, nervously jerking at his chest hair. Their jaws fell open indeed, when those two persons in front of them fell into each other's arms, exchanging hushed frantic words.

"Missed me?" Fawn attempted to withdraw from the tight embrace Hawke had welcomed him with, but he simply wasn't able to. Samael was clinging to him with desperation of a man who was no longer the master of his own life. "Hawke…?" he whispered into the silence, finally able to pull away from the human while his gloved hands lightly brushed the assassin's face. "What is it?" he asked even though it was more than obvious something was definitely very wrong with his one and only friend in Thedas.

Samael had but two words to whisper to the Hero of Fereldan who appeared the day when Hawke had lost all hope Mahariel would answer his desperate call for help:

"Help me."


	13. Chapter 13

"Samael?" a quiet word was carried away by a strengthening chilling wind. It was early autumn and the leaves were falling off the trees with every fresh gust of wind, playfully whirling through the air before nestling down into a rustling carpet.

"I thought we agreed upon _not _talking," a familiar voice warmed her ear and his harsh tone was once again contradictory to his arms tightening their grasp around the cold fragile body squirming within his embrace. At that moment it felt completely natural to lie half-naked under a huge willow tree, intertwined and lost in the maze of old twisted roots and fallen colorful leaves.

"I know," she buried her face in the man's chest emanating pungent odour of leather and sweat. "Elgar'Nan, so many things happened to us," she sighed to herself and sounded lost. Neither of them seemed to care their what first looked like a coincidental encounter degenerated into wild love making in the autumn woods. Wordlessly, breathlessly, they tore at each other in desperate need for answers to their excruciating loneliness and despair.

"Fawn's here," Hawke remarked and glanced at the tiny elf fiddling with laces on his tight breeches. The pale long fingers abruptly stopped as though paralyzed by that single name of the man who took everything from Merrill. Despite the heavy black cloak Samael had covered them with, she shivered, jabbing her fingernails into the warm flesh beneath them.

"I don't care," was her sour reply; the change within her tone and behavior couldn't have been any sharper.

"I thought you were friends," Samael wasn't willing to drop this. It wasn't that long since Merrill herself had told him she held no grudge against the Hero of Fereldan despite the fact he was the one who selfishly drove a wedge between the two of them.

"I have to go back to my people," she struggled against the strong arms which turned into a cage for her. "And you should go back to your Templar Mistress!" she lashed out at him with such a glare the arms around her loosened and suddenly the secret lovers found themselves standing, facing each other in indignation.

"Yes, run back to that lovely camp of yours," Samael sizzled and his amber eyes threatened to set the woods around on fire, "because _that _worked so well for us so far."

"There is no us, anymore, Hawke!" she gave him a mirthless laugh as she hastily bended over to pick up her robes.

"I'm afraid this," he gestured around them at the forest floor which looked like an arena after their duel, "proves otherwise, Keeper," he granted her a sardonic bow as he peevishly put his head through the black leather jerkin. "Tomorrow, the same time?" he asked with the same annoyed undertones in his hoarse voice.

"Don't bother. I won't be here," she reached for Marethari's staff leaning against the nearest tree and strapped it into its sheathe on her back.

"Neither will I," he retorted and for a while they silently stood in front of each other, while their eyes were speaking for them. It was inevitable the two of them would live through yet another day only to end up here again, at this very same place under withering trees and grey low skies, hoping the other one wouldn't show up and be both disappointed and relieved again and again every night the moment the other one emerged from the night shadows. There was indeed no escape from the bond they shared and neither did they seek a way out of it.

"Merrill…?" Samael's voice stopped her as she turned around to apparently storm away from Hawke. Anywhere but here was better at that moment.

"Yes?" she waited for his next words; tensed right to the unbearable point. A long silence followed as though Samael was fighting with himself. He wanted to tell her a hundred words, a thousand words, but he couldn't.

"That's not your cloak," he remarked and both of them knew he was about to say something else entirely. Merrill shook the heavy cloak off her shoulders which was indeed four sizes larger and walked away without a single glance at Hawke. The black cloak quietly folded itself on the pile of leaves and looked just like Samael — forgotten.

oOo

"Where have you been, by my dead brother's beard?! Where the hell have you been?" Varric fretted the moment Hawke serenely walked through the front door. Sweeping Aveline's hand off him, dodging the bristled up dwarf standing in his way, and anxiously avoiding Fawn's inquiring gaze, Samael heavily seated himself on the sofa, hiding his face in a palm.

"Lyrium," he reluctantly droned when it was clear they wouldn't leave him be.

"I thought you were selling the business," Aveline's sparkling eyes narrowed in suspicion. Never ever she would approve of Hawke's illegal activities, just like never ever she would turn her back at him and cease protecting him with her Guard-Captain's status and if that was not enough; then with her own shield and sword.

"I am. But some unique... circumstances occurred," Samael even more reluctantly shrugged and rounded the conversation up with an impatient gesture of dismissal.

"Yes, you are busy," Varric pointed an accusatory finger at the Champion, "you are surprised," he waved his hand in Aveline's way, "that's all very nice and touching, but maybe we should focus on the real issue here!" His ardent words were left hanging in the air; unanswered. Perhaps there was no answer to the greatest and also gravest problem Kirkwall currently had – the Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard.

"Perhaps I can answer at least one of the questions." Fawn, who had been unusually taciturn until this moment, gracefully stood up and stretched like after a very pleasant nap.

"Fawn... Don't..." Samael's lips barely moved as he abruptly stood up; his eyes begging Mahariel not to pursue this topic.

"Hum," Fawn purred as he started orbiting around his friend, deeply inhaling his scent, "I can smell _her _all over you, Samael." He stated and fell silent after that mocking speech, walking to fix himself a drink from Hawke's vast collection of liquors.

"What?" Aveline stared in awe at Hawke's blank face.

"Who?" Varric raised both eyebrows and watched both rivals in turns.

"Mind your own business," Samael hissed at them and snatched Fawn's carefully prepared drink; gulping it down. "Well..?" he broke the uncomfortable silence during which no one was willing to say out loud they had next to nothing regarding their plan on how to destroy Meredith without setting every Templar in Thedas against them.

"Well," Varric scratched his chest hair, "right now Meredith is the real political power in Kirkwall. Everybody, from Elthina to the lowest Templar, fears to go against her wishes. Those who quietly oppose her disappear. Those who openly oppose her are usually imprisoned based on some trumped-up allegation while their families are disgraced and their possessions devoured by the greedy beast called the Templar order."

"I'm being watched at every turn," Aveline continued when Varric simply shook his head as though he was at the edge of reason which was a terrifying thought on its own. "My men are questioned every week and they are systematically being turned against me," she finished and Samael wouldn't have believed that fear within her eyes, if only he didn't see it by himself.

"I'm afraid it's not going to get any better," Fawn threw in an unconcerned comment and everybody looked at Mahariel, wondering about his repose.

"No shit…" Varric grumbled and unwillingly groped the thick pink scar hidden beneath his flashy leather jerkin; a mark the Hero of Fereldan had left there during their first encounter at the Wounded Coast. "How do you know, huh?" he addressed the elf directly this time. "For all we know, you've just crawled out of some Fereldan brothel you've been hiding in for months!"

"Perhaps," Fawn passively shrugged, but that glacial glance he granted the dwarf silenced the loquacious storyteller indeed. "Perhaps I've even heard that a certain rebellious faction works really hard to tear Kirkwall apart," he added a seemingly innocent remark, observing his well-kept elegant hands. "Oh yes, Hawke," his eyes shortly flew to the Champion who had been intently listening to him, "you must have heard about them at some point, I suspect," he gave the pensive Hawke an ambiguous look.

"The Resolutionists," Samael spat out and clenched the teeth as though he said it against his will.

"Indeed the Resolutionists, among other factions. But we should worry about them the most," Fawn's face darkened. "What puzzles me even more is why haven't you taken some drastic measures against the human woman already? And where is your father dearest anyway?" he chuckled, but that absurd sound died away immediately as though smothered by that burdensome atmosphere creeping throughout the Hawke estate.

Fawn took a very long hard look at the downcast Champion of Kirkwall and finally he put two and two together. He was finally able to see Samael's torment; his powerlessness against the woman who held his father captive no doubt to keep him in check. A woman whose intentions were to sit the Champion down on the Viscount's throne, thrust the black cursed crown which was still bloodstained with Dumar's blood onto his head and rule the city through her unwilling puppet just a few years after she had removed the Viscount Perrin Threnhold after his attempt to expel the Templars from the city in 9:21 Dragon. The Viscount bold enough to stand against her was tried, imprisoned and died from poisoning two years later. Meredith was then subsequently elevated to her current position and rose to power while the next Viscount Marlowe Dumar died in the hands of the Qunari and Meredith placed Kirkwall under martial law and marred every attempt to replace Dumar ever since. Knowing this interregnum was not sustainable for much longer, she chose well her little crowned pet which was supposed to attend to all official Viscount events and keep its silly mouth shut as much as possible.

"You think I haven't tried?!" Hawke burst out shouting, raging all around the main hall. "Damn it, Fawn! Of course I've tried! You have no idea how hard I've tried to get to her! That woman's fucking untouchable! She's guarded at every step she takes, her meals are strictly prepared by the Tranquil morons who are also her servants, her quarters are like an impenetrable stronghold! I have that creep Alrik behind my back every waking hour and, apparently, my father is just a single move of Meredith's bony ugly finger far from a death sentence and I have no idea where she stashed him! I can't even try to find him since my every move is reported to Meredith, including my potential disappearance. Merrill's clan is exposed to Meredith's every whim and she could have purged Sundermount countless times if I ever dared give her if only a single wry look. Aveline's being pressed against the wall, Anders keeps pressuring me with his insane underground rebellion, Sebastian keeps blathering about the troops for his beloved Starkhaven and I have the Carta lackeys and the Coterie crawled practically up my ass since they both crave the lyrium contracts for Kirkwall! Fuck!" he punched the wall, leaving a fading blood smudges on the stone from his bruised knuckles.

Somehow it was liberating to cry out loud everything that had been eating him alive. And the pain pulsing in his hurt hands was purifying as much as it was dreadful. Nobody dared breathe a word after that desperate outburst of a powerful man whose wings had been viciously clipped, his body cornered and soul imprisoned.

"Look at me," Mahariel strode towards the broken Champion who collapsed down along the wall, glaring at nothing in particular. "Hawke, look at me," Fawn pulled the stolid man up on his feet. "I'll find him. I'll find your father for you, do you hear me?" he demanded a confirmation that Samael had understood. Their gaze locked, Fawn could see the growing cautious hope tweaking Hawke's lips into shy curves. "If I understand correctly, the only thing keeping you from Meredith is uncertainty regarding your father, so I'm going to find him for you."

"And then…" Hawke whispered, completely taken aback by what the elf had been saying.

"Then we'll take the bitch down together," Fawn nodded and almost laughed about that boyish dimple the fearful Champion of Kirkwall had on his face at that moment. "In the meantime, keep Merrill safe, convince your annoying shrimpy friend to lay low, keep Anders on a short leash and get your Guards Captain a taster," he impishly chortled at his own joke, but the rest of them weren't sure whether the Hero of Fereldan meant it or not.

"Are you shitting me?" Varric mumbled a question. "Am I supposed to sit here like a duck, waiting for the Templars to decide whether I am important enough to throw me into jail or not? Or wait until our beloved Hawke screw something up which would lead no doubt to the same result? Or – Oh, shit, no, no, no, no, I know that look," Varric squeaked when he realized Samael hadn't been listening to him at all as he seemed preoccupied with staring distantly at something none of them could see.

"I know…" Samael murmured to himself, shaking his head in disbelief as though the solution for all his problems had always been within an arm reach. "I know now…"

"Please, tell me you know what to order Bodahn to make for a lunch," Varric all but begged Hawke not to come up with yet another of his deranged plans.

"I know what Meredith touches that is not expected through and through by her army of Tranquils, Templars, tasters and Chantry minions," he started frantically nodding; his eyes wide open and glowing with malevolent fire, his disheveled hair wildly dancing around his feverish face. Hawke paused; savouring those tensed faces around him, drawing energy from their restlessness and a sudden immense wave of tranquility washed all over him.

He knew this would work.

It had to work.

There was no turning back.

Thus he had really enjoyed saying that single word which was the answer to his ordeal.

"Me."

oOo

"Drought of Waking Death," Hawke ceremonially pronounced while holding a single crystal vial in front of his eyes, staring at it in reverence. "My father made it. I find it perversely poetic this would be the beginning of Meredith's end."

"Hawke…!" Aveline kept shaking her head when she finally started to understand what was Hawke saying. "There's no way I would ever allow you to do this! There has to be another way!"

"I still don't understand!" Varric reached for the vial, turning it mistrustfully in his callous hands and watching as the venomously green thick fluid lazily moved within it. "I thought you said there's no way how to get past the Tranquils and Templars. How are we supposed to slip the venom to Meredith then?" he kept musing about the matter.

"Use your squeamish little brain once in a while, dwarf," Fawn snorted and his thin lips quirked. "It includes venom and exchanging some disgusting human fluids since obviously Hawke here is Meredith's shiny new plaything."

"I… Oh…" Varric was left speechless. "Oh!" he disgustedly blurted out as it hit him what was Mahariel saying.

"Have you thought this through, my friend?" Fawn stepped forward, placing both palms on Hawke's shoulders. "It could easily get out of hand and you would doom her as much as yourself."

"I know," Samael glanced at the pale fingers gently laid on his jerkin and it comforted him. "But I see no other way. Something must be done and I can't approach her directly. I can't simply barge into her office and run her through. The Templars would probably get me a second later or they'd hound me across the Free Marches for the rest of my short life."

"So you choose 'I might die' option rather than 'I'll die for sure' choice?" Fawn's eyebrows knitted as he contemplated Hawke's plan even further.

"Wait, what? What is he talking about?" Aveline couldn't stand to listen to that conversation and not interfere.

"Let me explain what exactly Hawke plan to endure," Fawn's face hardened and his eyes narrowed in perverted interest. "The moment you take in the venom, nothing happens. It is meant to soothe the victim not aware of the danger at hand. After a half an hour the first symptoms manifest themselves and —"

"Shut up!" Samael launched forward, unable to hear about what was awaiting him.

"But here comes the fun part, my dear!" Fawn laughed with a dreary laughter as he started circling around the Champion. "The muscle aches, spasms, your joints feel like they've been ripped out and replaced with white-hot shards of broken glass, stomach fills with biles, you vomit and your throat feels like somebody thrust a hammer down your esophagus. Blood's dripping down your throat, as you bite your cheeks not to scream; it's choking you, gaging you and you feel slick coppery taste of burnt coins. Temperature's sky rocket, one second your skin feels like it's on fire, the second it's buried under tunes of ice, while every pain sensor within your body is firing at the same time until agony is no longer a word or a concept, but your bleak reality. Your... Little... Private... Hell... Hawke," Fawn's melodic voice dropped right above a whisper. "Not good enough?" he asked the shivering young man as though he was asking about the weather.

"Enough..." Hawke attempted to whisper, but his voice cracked. Only his eyes were begging Fawn to stop.

"You hallucinate, you dream of merciful death, yet only then the true race begins," Mahariel continued mercilessly; his bottomless eyes reaching into Hawke's widened amber ones. "Despite all these symptoms you have to drink several cups of odious herbal hooch during this single short episode, because once it's over, there's no way how to reverse the venom circling within your veins. And not to do so will condemn you to the very same fate as Meredith's. This whole episode is stretched into twenty minutes tops, then the symptoms fade as quickly as they appeared, forcing the victims to believe they ate a bad fish and nothing worse. Even after the administration of the antidote you can't be sure for days if it worked or not."

"I can handle the pain," Samael sizzled through his clenched teeth.

"I'm sure you can," Fawn sneered and his eyes slid down along Hawke's body to the place right above his left hip. Only a few beings knew what was hidden beneath the fabric; the rows of ragged scars, whose current sorry state was a faithful mirror of Samael's tormented soul. "But can you handle the Death, Hawke?" Fawn cocked his head as he studied Hawke's determined face for one long minute. "All right then," he nodded as though Hawke had replied even though he remained silent and motionless.

"All right?!" Aveline shrieked. "I'm most certainly _not _all right with a fact he's about to poison himself! Again!" Her exasperated words died away in a clamor of her Guards plate armor as she sprang out of her seat.

"Aveline," Samael's calm voice stopped her and she realized only now he was smiling at her, "it'll be all right. I must do this and I must do this alone. I've compromised you and Varric enough as it is, considering you're my only friends I have left. The coronation is in a week. I want you two to do just as Fawn suggested – lay low, no fights with the Templars, Aveline, no questionable business with the Merchants' Guild, Varric."

"I'll leave right away, Hawke," Fawn interrupted him and lounged in an armchair.

"Are you… sure about this?" Hawke quietly asked, waiting for a response; breathless.

"That's why you called me here, is it not?" Mahariel dryly stated the obvious and lit up a cigar to Aveline's disgust. "A terrible poem, by the way. Your own work, I suspect," he smirked about Hawke's flushed cheeks.

"Shut up…" Samael growled, hiding a broad smile behind the veil of his black hair. "So, my friends," he glanced around, "the time is upon us. Fawn's going to track my father, Aveline should return to her men and prevail just for a little longer and Varric," he nodded at the dwarf, "I need you to close up the negotiations about my lyrium contracts. A simple task – the highest bid takes it all."

"Call me, if you need anything," Aveline grasped him towards her, giving him a bear hug before she left the estate; two Templars immediately behind her back to her eternal annoyance.

"When I'm done with this shit, I don't want to see any lyrium for the rest of my long, content life," Varric kept muttering when he patted Hawke's shoulder, glared at the Hero of Fereldan who reciprocated with a cold reptile grimace.

"Don't fuck this up, Samael," Fawn blew the smoke upwards and put out his only half-burnt cigar in the ivory ashtray.

"What could _possibly _go wrong?" Hawke shrugged and they burst out guffawing, though their faces remained serious. "Fawn!" he caught Mahariel's sleeve when the elf bowed and obviously intended to leave right away. "Don't… Die… All right?" This clumsy expression of his worries was all he could say to his friend.

"If only I could ever promise you something like that, my friend," Fawn leaned closer and let their foreheads briefly touch before he grabbed his cloak and vanished into night.

"Messere…?" a bashful voice woke up Hawke from his sullen musing as he watched the flames dancing in fireplace. "What now?" Bodahn summarized the whole situation with but two words.

"Now, my dear Bodahn, we're about to play a game," Hawke slowly swiveled his head to look at the punctilious old steward. "They wanted me trapped and trapped I am indeed with nothing better to do anyway."

"A game?" the dwarf whined, since that vengeful mask on Hawke's face was always a bad sign.

"Yes, a game, Bodahn. A funky game indeed," Samael repeated the words his father once had said. "I'm going to teach you how to frame a Templar," he laughed and it was a sinister laughter that chilled the old dwarf's bones. "You see, I have a score to settle with one particular lizard who took something from me," Samael's eyes found the mabari collar hanging right above the fireplace and a cold hand of revenge squeezed his heart. Even colder than his own left crippled hand; the masterpiece of Alrik's doing as well.

If Alrik thought he would get away alive of what he'd done, well, he should have thought again.

oOo

"I can't say I'm thrilled to see you, young Master Hawke." Xenon's morose voice slit the uncomfortable silence the old Black Emporium proprietor had welcomed him with.

"And you wonder why no one ever comes here…" Samael sneered and poked a suspicious shaking box with the tip of his boot.

"What do you want?!" the old man barked and cautiously coughed into his desiccated palm; examining its revolting content afterwards.

"Oh my, you really wish me out of here, don't you," Hawke's sneer faded and he glanced around. After all, it wouldn't be the first time he got jumped at this place hidden in the Kirkwall sewers.

"I most certainly do, but I ain't stupid enough to force you to do anything, Champion," the chilliness was literally dripping out of Xenon's bitter words.

"And what does that suppose to mean?" Samael's face darkened. He didn't like where this conversation was going; not at all.

"Oh, please, don't play that innocent, lost lad who stumbled off the boat from the Blight-stricken Fereldan years ago. You had nothing. You were nobody. Now look at yourself. Rising to power, controlling the lyrium trade far and wide, in cahoots with that old hag and drunk with gold and power. No longer knowing who you were, not a clue about who you are now."

"Are you done?" Hawke interrupted that spate of vitriolic words and rebukes.

"By all means, young Master Hawke," Xenon mimicked a derisory obeisance, "or is it Your Excellency now?"

"I would shut your mouth if I were you, or I'll rip it off at the hinges," Samael all but roared the old man silent, having quite enough of his mockery. "Take a look at this, will you?" he dropped an elongated package into his lap, scoffing when Xenon's bones rattled beneath its weight.

"What… How… What have you done with it?" Xenon gaped at the broken staff Hawke had bought from him for his Elvhenan mistress. "You brute, what have you done to my masterpiece? You, you, you…" Xenon kept lamenting as though his child was dead; not a piece of cracked wood, bunch of dragon scales and a few smashed crystals.

"It exploded," Hawke diplomatically described the situation.

"Exploded?" Xenon hurled a scornful glare at him. "Exploded!" he cried out as though this single word was a torment. "That's all you have to say?"

"Well, it happened when Merrill attacked somebody with it," was Hawke's curt reply this time.

"Whom? A freaking dragon family?!" the old man couldn't get past this.

"Ehm, _me_, actually," Samael coughed and fidgeted. "She attacked _me_," he repeated.

"Interesting…" the change in Xenon's voice and attitude was overwhelming as he settled down, stroking the pole thoughtfully and scratching his chin with his other hand. "And you say that the staff –"

"Exploded, yes," the Champion confirmed. "The crystals were bleeding, the wood cracked and it let out this strange long wail."

"A wail you say, hum, a cry of pain, a defeated roar of despair when you two fools were set against each other," he shot a curious glance at Hawke.

"Can you repair it or not?" Samael hastily proceeded to what was the most important matter for him.

"Can _you _repair it?" Xenon asked a Solomonian question and they both knew he was talking about Hawke's bond to the Keeper.

"No," was Samael's quiet reply as he bowed his head in sorrow.

"Here's an answer to your question then," Xenon shrugged, handing the broken staff back to the taciturn young man. "Anything else?" his eyes flew to the doors; indirectly throwing the Champion out of the Black Emporium.

"No," Hawke whispered, shrouding the staff back into its duffel bag. Then, as though he had changed his mind, he leaned the staff into a corner, clearly intending to leave it here to its fate.

"I bid you a good day then, Champion," Xenon mercilessly continued, gesturing towards the way out with his freakishly long, bone-like arm.

"A day will come and whole Kirkwall will know who Samael Hawke truly was. A lyrium smuggler, a mercenary, a Viscount, Meredith's puppet, Elthina's holy soldier, none of these things, Xenon. None," he whirled around and the myriads of vials and dusty flasks displayed on endless rows of wooden shelves collided in a brazen clang as he slammed the door closed behind his back.

"That remains to be seen, Champion," Xenon mumbled to himself and his artful eyes hidden in deep dark sockets found the dark crimson bag with the broken staff inside of it. "That remains to be seen indeed."


	14. Chapter 14

Swan's Swamp was a sleepy little village three days ride north from Kirkwall and it seemed a perfectly serene and dull place to live except the fact nobody had ever actually seen a swan there. The dwellers were usually old residents and they looked wryly at any passers-by or, Gods forbid, a tired traveller who dared ask for a shelter and a bowl of hot soup. The village seemed to live on its own for every being within its stockade appeared to have its precise purpose and any deviation from the duties was mercilessly punished. The people were used to gathering in a small Chantry chapel five times a week where the puckered-face Revered Mother gave sermons and looked after her flock which was seemingly pious and unshakable in their faith in the Maker's will.

But once a curious traveller peeked under that smooth peel of this village ruled by secrecy, some dark stains appeared within this serried community. These nosy intruders tended to disappear without a trace and nobody would have ever thought of trying to find them in that sleepy little village snuggled down in that deceitfully beautiful land of steep green hills, singing rivulets and vast glades with luxuriant vegetation colored into autumn shades.

It had been some time since the dwellers learned not to pry about the occasional caravan which jolted down the dusty road under cover of night. They learned not to acknowledge the Templars jumping out of that carriage. They turned their heads as the Templars dragged a person blinded with a black cloth over his head into the small chapel. They pretended not to hear the scream of a victim coming from the tiny barred windows of the chapel right above the ground, because it was so much easier to trust their Revered Mother that this was the Maker's will and they were to help Him to break the heretics who had no doubt done something awful to deserve such a fate. No one would have guessed who those people really were. No one cared. No one knew they were guilty of but being brave or foolish enough to question the Knight-Commander Meredith and thus brought her wrath down upon them. This was the place where were all of them gathered and interrogated over and over again, until they believed themselves they were guilty of capital crime and worthy of nothing but hangman's noose.

This system Meredith established had been working for years, but something stirred the still waters of Swans Swamp. Something happened; something dark and ominous. Something no one would be ever able to explain what was it that drove all the villagers away from their homes in a single day and none of them were ever seen again.

oOo

The caravan came at the most unusual time; morning had dawned clear and cold with a crispness of the end of fall, but as soon as the caravan pulled over, the whole village was on its feet at once, knowing, that something had definitely gone terribly wrong.

The carriage door swung open and two corpses in Templar plate armor fell out, the clamour of their armor dying away in sinister silence spreading around the carriage like a sickness. The rest of the Templars started swarming around, cautiously approaching the carriage, glancing at each other in doubt of what was going on in there. One of the bolder young Templars dared set foot on the first step, and a gaunt arm hauled him in while the thick spray of hot blood splashed his brethren's helmets and breastplates. Frenzied, the Templars barged into the carriage with their swords drawn and the lyrium burning within their veins.

The clash was short and brutal, ended by an inhuman wail as Malcolm Hawke was hit with the waves of Templars' fury. Again and again they fed on his magic, on his despair, until they left but a small part of him alive. Satisfied with this outcome, they avenged their dead brethren by at least well-aimed kicks and spits, and only then they lugged Malcolm into the chapel by his ankle.

"That'll teach you, scum...!" a tall Templar cackled and threw the limp mage through the cell door. Dissatisfied with the fact Malcolm just hit the wall and collapsed down onto the hard cold stone floor strewn with straw and rat droppings, he strode over to him, grasping his head into his gloved hands. "Consider this a beginning, old man. You've cost me three men. I won't forget it no matter what Meredith plans for you," he grumbled and snorted when the unconscious Malcolm hadn't moved nor did he at least whimper. "Delicate mageling flower," the Templar hurled Malcolm's head against the floor in disgust and locked the cell.

There was an ale barrel to crack and roasted piglet to eat and, honestly, playing with the mage would be much more fun if he was fully conscious. That way he could scream and beg. Oh yes; scream and beg.

oOo

"Bodahn?" Hawke shook the old butler. "Bodahn, have you been even listening to me?" he asked and his eyebrows knitted.

"Well… Yes… Of course, my lord," the old dwarf blurted out, looking everywhere but Hawke's inquisitive eyes.

"What's wrong?" Samael lowered his voice, placing his both hands onto his old friend's shoulders. "You've been behaving rather oddly lately, Bodahn," he threw in an observation, "and I really need to know if I can still count on you right now."

"Of course you can, my lord!" Bodahn's eyes widened as though he was surprised that his loyalty was suddenly being questioned after all those years he had been faithfully serving Hawke.

"Good," a single word slipped past Samael's lips. "Good, I believe you," his mouth curled into a coy smile as he let go of the dwarf. "Everything's prepared, Bodahn. Expect me precisely at midnight and have that herbal concoction I've made warm and ready. There's a little something else I need you to know," Hawke's voice quivered as he raked his fingers through the long black hair just like he did countless times during that one last hour. "When I come back tonight, I'll be… Sick," his voice cracked.

"Sick," Bodahn echoed that single crucial word. "Exactly how _much _sick?" he demanded an explanation most cautiously.

"_Very _sick, Bodahn." Hawke tried to lighten the atmosphere with a brief nervous laughter. "Very… Very… Sick," he approached the dwarf again, looking straight into his confused eyes. "But I have to believe I'll be able to take in the antidote nonetheless."

"And if not?" Bodahn's plaintive voice countered in panic.

"Have a little faith, dwarf," Samael sneered and shrouded himself in a cloak Meredith had presented him with. He'd need any leverages tonight no doubt to sway her off balance and make her dancing just as he needed her to. "I'll see you soon. Be ready."

With those words Hawke walked out of the door without the slightest glance back. He had every reason to worry though. It had been days since Mahariel emerged from the shadows only to disappear again with a promise of help. There was no such hour Hawke wouldn't be thinking about where Fawn was; if he managed to track down his father and if yes – then where the hell were they?!

Scatterbrained, Bodahn skittered around the estate for a while after his Master's departure, polishing the door knobs which were spotless already, and only then he realized he hadn't heard nor seen his son for a while. Bodahn started checking the usual places the young dwarven boy used to hide at; nothing.

"Ah, here you are, my boy. Sneak out on me like this, what were you thinking, San—" Bodahn stopped abruptly in the middle of his good-natured scolding as he entered the laboratory in the basement.

"Um," Sandal evaluated the situation as he stood above the overturned pot which was supposed to contain the antidote. But not anymore apparently. The stinking, sparse light green liquid spilled all over the floor and only one single word popped up in Bodahn's terrified mind at that first moment of shock. One word he had never used before, moreover in front of his young son. One word seemingly perfect for this dire situation.

"Shit."

oOo

Alrik had been experiencing a very pleasant day right up to the point when he entered Meredith's office at a late hour to provide her with his daily report and found there that Fereldan brat all sprawled out on the sofa with his one leg shamelessly swinging over the wooden arm-rest elaborately carved into hands clasped in prayer.

"Good evening, Ser Alrik," Hawke didn't even bother to look up from the thick leather-bound book about the history of the Templars of Kirkwall.

"You…!" Alrik all but hissed an accusatory greeting while his eyes roved around the dusky office.

"She's not here," Samael snapped the old book shut and reached for a glass of thick sweet wine, grimacing just as a spoiled and capricious noble would.

"I… Can… See that," Alrik bared his teeth at the smirking Champion of Kirkwall as he took one step closer to the sofa with his every venomous word.

"Ugh, you really drink this swill around here?" Samael pouted and set the glass back on a little round table with a spoilt grimace on his face. "Perhaps a piece of cheese would make it better. Pass me a slice, will you?" Hawke knew he was teasing the adder with a bare foot, but it was essential to provoke Alrik and lure him out of that shell of humility and fealty he was hiding under whenever Meredith was nearby.

"Oh, I'll slice you all right, you dregs," Alrik spat out as he loomed over Hawke still comfortably lounging on soft pillows. "Just like I sliced you father dearest," he added slowly; clearly gaining advantage over Hawke whose hand knuckles crunched as he clenched both hands into fists, but not a muscle moved on his blank face. "Just like I sliced that mongrel of yours," the Templar continued with his slimy nasal voice. "It whined like a bitch as I sliced its throat…" he giggled with a dove-like innocent laughter and it was indeed not in Samael's powers to remain serene after that cruel remark.

"Ah, ladies and gentlemen, and the true face of Fereldan savage mercenary appears right here beneath that gilding," Alrik sneered as he observed Hawke's heaving chest, shaking hands and ferocious eyes. "Come now, Champion, not much for hearing the truth, are we? You'd rather pretend you were not the one responsible for their d—" Alrik's victorious speech were silenced once Hawke launched forward and crashed with that murderer and torturer in silent combat, but, just as he predicted, their collision was much more painful for him than for the fully-armored Templar. It was no coincidence Hawke wore a very elegant and titillating cobalt blue attire made of silk as soft as a courtesan's feather fan, just like it was no coincidence Hawke came here completely unarmed which he thought necessary and also against his better judgment.

Every second Alrik kept his life seemed unbearable for Hawke and the Templar was everywhere to remind him. It was indeed like a glove thrown again and again into Samael's face. Like a living offense and a proof, that there was a man walking the earth who had awfully wronged him and instead of simply killing him, he had to perform this ridiculous dance in order to finally take his vengeance on the man who attempted to ruin his life and so far he had been disturbingly successful. To take out Alrik and preserve Meredith's fragile favour at the same time seemed an impossible task, yet Hawke was bound to try. If not because of his hurt pride, then because of Charon. Because of his hand which would never ever be fully functional. Because of his father being taken from him, while Hawke was left behind at the lake bank; hurting, humbled and sentenced to live on.

Hawke knew, of course, that Meredith was the real source of all evil here. He indeed planned on dealing with her soon enough, but first he had to weaken her position, spread subversion against her in the worst possible sense and only then strike her down with one precisely calculated blow for he knew there would be but one single chance to do so. As his father had aptly remarked – there would be only one person standing when this was over and thus it was crucial to proceed by the carefully outlined plan which included Meredith catching the two of them in the middle of a fierce argument or even skirmish in her precious office and Hawke would be indisputably the victim of Alrik's madness here.

Taunting that clanging lizard, Samael tried as hard as he could not to lose himself in the escalating scuffle for it would be his doom and his plan would have been wrecked at its very beginning. Kicking, insulting, scratching, punching and cursing, Hawke had been slowly, but surely pushing the Templar to the edge of his sanity which was successfully reached when Alrik grasped the younger man towards him, crushing him in a bear-like embrace and spluttering insults while Samael knew no better than to start pounding on Alrik's shiny bold head with his both open palms. The coveted outcome was apparently achieved since Alrik ripped his fancy sword out of the scabbard and an almost imperceptible victorious sneer curled Hawke's lips. If he needed anything to make the scene solid and convincing, it would be definitely blood.

A long fading nick on his face, his fetching doublet in shreds and stained with blood, his slashed arms brought up to protect himself from the cackling Templar, Samael couldn't have wished for a better moment for Meredith to make an appearance.

"Maker…!" Meredith seemed to suffer of massive loss of words at first. "Stop this at once!" she burst out shouting, almost tearing Alrik's high-coloured head off as she ripped him away from her kind-of-unwilling lover and protégé. "I would not tolerate this boorish behavior here; _right here _in my office!"

"Knight-Commander, please hear me out and—" the fuming Alrik accusatory pointed his sword at the panting young man. The droplets of bright crimson blood on its tip didn't help him though.

"He's insane! He attacked me!" Samael groaned a response, smudging the blood across his cheek and mewling as he glanced at his bloodied palm afterwards.

"Meredith…!" Alrik pleaded with his Mistress to listen to him, though his deranged mind was aware the Knight-Commander had already made a picture of what'd been going on. Fully dressed-up and armed Templar let himself to be provoked by Champion's no doubt boyish comments, attacking the younger, unarmed man in order to spill his blood. There was no other explanation as Meredith thoroughly inspected Samael's sorry state and Alrik's blood-stained blade he was still holding in his hand with a dumb expression on his face. "Meredith, please, _listen _to me and do not let him fool y—"

"I would not hear another word from you, Ser Alrik," Meredith had silenced her underling before she seated the Champion into her own armchair, her eyes glowing in blatant wrath. It seemed Hawke was losing conscience due to his wounds however they were just superficial which apparently hadn't stop him from whinging and seeking comfort in Meredith's arms. But Samael's devious plan had barely started and the second part, his favourite, was just about to be set in motion with a slow triple-knock on the office door.

"Not now!" Meredith yelled away whoever stood at the opposite side of the doors, but the triple-knock repeated itself with unconcerned stubbornness. "What…?" The Knight-Commander almost ripped the heavy door off its hinges as she opened them to see for herself who dared disturb her in such manner.

"Howdy, ma'am," a gangly squint-eyed man Meredith had seen frequently at the Gallows courtyard boldly walked past her, tipping his shapeless cloth cap sideways and to the eternal surprise of all present the man strode right in front of the aghast Templar.

"You Ser Alrik?" the scrag nodded at him, chewing on tobacco and rolling it in his mouth with disgusting moist sounds. "You one hard-to-find fella, eh? Gotta shipment of raw lyrium for ya. Sign here," he thrust long narrow vellum into Alrik's left hand while he snatched a quill from Meredith's desk. "If you don't mind, fine lady," he grinned at Meredith who was too awestricken to do anything.

Strangely enough, Alrik was the first one to react. He started _laughing_. Quiet, almost frolicksome giggles turned into fierce waves of dreadful laughter which vibrated throughout his whole being as he kept wiggling his finger at the begetter of his inevitable doom.

"You… That's good… You're good… I… Of course…" Alrik kept braying and the blood-stained sword fell off his hand.

"That's enough, Alrik," Meredith straightened up as though each other salvo of hysteric laughter was a slap to her face.

"You can win the battle, Hawke, but you've already lost the war, Hawke." Alrik kept tittering as the guards grasped him by his epaulettes. "Do you hear me, Hawke?!" he shrieked as he was being whisked away. "You can't win this fight! You won't win this fight! Keep your hands off me, you pheasants! I am your Captain, for fuck's sake! Hawke! Haaaaaawke! This isn't over!" his wails were dying away and abruptly stopped as the escort pummeled the fallen Templar to silence him. Alrik was wrong; it was over for him indeed.

Suddenly alone, Meredith kicked the door closed, but not before she spat down onto the framed Templar's sword. "What… How… Argh!" she clenched her head in despair as she started whirling around her crammed office. "What have you said to him!? Speak!" It took her a while before she decided to vent her ire on the silent Champion and judging by her narrowed eyes and an insane blaze within them, she was about to accuse him of plotting this whole drama in order to get rid of the hated man. "Talk!" she roughly shook him and Samael did the only thing that might have saved him from the warped Knight-Commander who was desperately searching for a reason why she had lost her loyal friend and most treasured Captain of her Order.

Hawke moaned before his eye lids fluttered and closed, while his hands, clenching the gaping wound across his chest, gave up and lazily dropped down; the fingers slowly unfolding in mute acceptance of the omni-embracing blackout.

oOo

If Samael thought Mahariel left Kirkwall that night when he left the Hawke estate, he was mistaken. Fawn roamed around the quiet city for a while, first snowflakes of that year sliding down along his shroud which he kept tightly wrapped around the body.

_Why would I do such a thing?_

Fawn let out his anger as he kicked small piece of marble chipped off of a corner of some lesser noble's mansion.

_What seven hells whispered me to even get involved?_

Fawn hurled such a glare at the Guardsmen shivering on their patrol, that they did not even peep a word about the forbidden trespassing from Hightown to Lowtown and vice versa during the night.

_Is this really what friendship means? To deliberately put yourself in trouble on your so-called-friend's behalf?_

Fawn's eyes soared up into the skies as he stood at the end of a pier where his legs had carried him. For a moment, he was able to glimpse a few shy stars on west as they struggled their way through the early winter blizzard and it occurred to him, that soon there would be no stars for the Hero of Fereldan. If this was what he was meant to do before he slipped into endless darkness of the Deep Roads and wait until the taint within his veins would finally take over, so be it.

Resolved, Mahariel glanced at the stars one last time, not paying attention that their glow was already smothered by the thick curtain of silver clouds. He would remember them so they could shine at least in his mind once all other lights would fade around him. But where to start? How to find that Malcolm Hawke? What was the Keeper always saying to him before he was dragged away by the Wardens? She said: "If you need to find a nut in the sea—"

"—befriend the fish," Fawn's thin lips pronounced the words he thought he had forgotten long time ago. When Mahariel looked up, he stood right in front of the only place where he could find his answers to all his questions.

The Hanged Man.

oOo

If the Hanged Man had been ever sleeping, it would be around 4 or 5 in the morning. Last glasses of wine had been emptied, cigar stumps had been cooling down in ash trays chiseled into crude dragon heads, piles of mucky dishes were left in the basins to be taken care of once Corff's girls woke up and the moans of courtesans and lovers had died away.

Only one room was still lit up with two short, almost melted candles, and Fawn realized only now they had never put them out.

"It's almost breaking dawn, my lady…" a soft whisper caressed the pale smooth skin on her back. She shivered. A finger running down her spine and warm lips pressing a long kiss against her cold flesh drew a moan from her.

Without any haste, Fawn started dressing himself up, carefully searching the room for all his outerwear he had shrugged off what seemed like eons ago to him. When he was done, he sauntered toward the wooden rack with neatly arranged full Templar armor on it; the Templar great-sword was sheathed and hung on a door knob. It was the time for him to leave. Indeed he now possessed all needed information to track down one rather insignificant person marked as the enemy of Meredith's regime, though that insignificance could have been questioned by the fact an execution warrant was on its way at that precise moment to announce Malcolm and his captors, that the mage had been found guilty and thus his life would be taken from him an hour before dawn of the winter solstice day - the very same day Samael was supposed to take up the Viscount's crown. Mahariel had five days then which was more than he actually needed.

"Farewell, my Muse." Fawn's cloak whirled through the freezing morning air, making soft noise just like hummingbirds would do, as he glanced one last time at the woman lying in bed who did not respond to his departure.

How could she with a dagger stuck in her heart?

oOo

A lone rider was spurring a stolen stallion north from Kirkwall. It was not just Meredith's courier carrying Malcolm's death warrant what made the Hero of Fereldan rode restlessly for hours; no rest, no food nor water. Just the need to ride even harder, even faster as though there was somebody behind his back hounding him no matter where he turned. Maybe there was such a ghost of past.

It was at dusk of the second day of that insane pursuit when Fawn finally heard what he needed at one inn which was so insignificant and small, that it had even no name. The carriage with the courier, his esquire and a Lay Brother of the Chantry had passed not an hour ago after they dined an opulent supper of the finest meals the nameless inn could have offered. They were in no haste; the bold muscular inn proprietor remarked, and in a good mood.

"One would say they were on a very pleasant trip," the bartender seemed much more prone to share his thoughts once Mahariel flipped a silver coin into his callous hand. "Of course, if there was such a thing possible in the Free Marches," the bold one cackled a bitter laughter as he hurled a sidelong glance at the taciturn elf. "And what business an elf might have here, in the middle of a nowhere?" he asked and his eyes flashed in greed once Fawn's dusty travelling shroud parted itself and the bartender was able to glimpse an armor even the Elvhenan princes of the old Arlathan Empire would wear.

"I would pour me a glass of wine and let me leave in peace, my friend, if I were you." The elf's voice was barely audible; the merest whisper of a threat in those melodic words, but the bartender must have heard something much more within them since he studied the elf's face for a while with widened eyes – that beautiful solemn face, thin lips twisted into a snarl, the Dalish tattooes curving into an elaborate net throughout the pale skin on his face, and finally those black bottomless eyes with a grim cast within them.

Without a word, the bartender heaved his arms in the air in a surrendering gesture before he obediently filled the glass with the nearest wine bottle he could have snatched. "Any chance that elf we've seen here last week is with you? I ask only because he scared the piss out of me and I'm pretty sure we don't wa—"

"_What elf?_" Fawn almost spluttered out the generous sip of his wine. There was but one person that possessed this effect on the Hero of Fereldan.

"Well, er, I'm not sure if…. But, you know…" The bartender started squirming and clearly he now regretted dearly he hadn't kept his chatty mouth shut.

"Blonde long hair, my height, black tattoos curling across his cheek, dressed in fine leather…?" Fawn was not looking at the poor bartender as he interrupted him with this short accurate description.

"So, you _do _know him," the bartender sneered and he would have added another no doubt smart remark, if only the elf was still there. The opened front door was yawning at him in his solitude.

"Bloody elves," the bartender spat as he strode to close the door, "and what's up with those ridiculous tattoos of theirs, I wonder…" his swearing died away as he went about his business.

oOo

"Your eyes are finally open."

Those words hadn't quite reached Samael's veiled mind and sleepy senses. But the merciless reality he woke up into was importunate. In a blink of an eye, he remembered where he was. What must have been done. And why.

"Meredith," a single word slipped past his chapped lips as he lumpishly supported himself on the elbows. An imperceptible move of his hand and Samael could be reassured that the flacon with the poison was still hidden where he had stashed it. The Circle mages must have had tended to him while he was out, he figured. His skin was intact, however his attire was beyond salvation. _Good_, he thought, since he'd prefer to stay faithful to his comfortable clinging black leather armor sets.

"I can't believe this. I refuse to believe this," Meredith whispered more to herself as she collapsed on the sofa right next to Hawke with her head in palms. "My most trusted man. The Captain of my sixteen Templar platoons. A fiend. Traitor. I—" her voice cracked and the Champion felt almost sorry for her. Until the face of his father twisted in torment came forward in his mind. "What… How… How can I trust somebody, anybody?" Frenzied, she jumped up on her feet only to sit back down a second later.

"You can trust _me_," Hawke slid down off the sofa to kneel by her feet. Everything was at stake here and he knew it. Did she? The poison burned down Samael's throat as he had drunk it a minute ago. There was no coming back from this point. He was poisoned and it was now up to him to make sure the venom would reach the person it was meant for in the first place.

"You?" she briefly uncovered her eyes and gave him a contemptuous grimace. "You'd thrust a dagger in my heart the moment I was foolish enough to turn my back to you," she spat out at him, but there was something in her voice; some strange undertones Hawke had never heard from her before. As though she begged him to ardently oppose that statement, prove her she was wrong.

_You bet I would… _The cynic inside of Hawke's head stretched and yawned.

"I would not do such a thing," was Samael's actual words as he suppressed that inner voice in his head. "Do you know me so little, Meredith? Do you hate me such that you need to insult me at every turn?" he looked up at her with such a passion and insistence in his voice, that she could not bear the fire within his eyes, burning its way into her heart writhing in doubt. She shrugged his hands off her as she literally fled out of his reach, facing the huge mirror on two bronze talons now.

"Look at me," he appeared right behind her in the mirror, "look at us," he demanded when she resisted. "Surely you must know I could have left these shores a long time ago. Or do you think that Dalish whore matters to me one whit? Or the estate of my ancestors? Oh, I could have slipped through your fingers if I wanted to countless times," his warm husky voice was breaking through her impenetrable façade. "But here I am, still at your side, whether you know it or not. Whether you want it or not. And why is that, I wonder?" he roughly spun her around to face him, shamelessly abusing the fact his attire was in shreds and his young taut body was an invitation Meredith could not turn down. "Have I ever expressed discontent about being watched by your men all the time, day and night? Have I ever defied you in any matter? Yet there are you – cold, unattainable, silent. And here I am – obedient, at your command, despairing. If you only look at me. If you only talk to me. There's nothing I crave more. Nothing."

It was easy to pretend it was Merrill he was kissing after that drama he had just performed. It was easy to pretend they were Merrill's fingernails jabbed into his feverish skin. It was far easier to believe they were Merrill's moans echoing in his ears. At this moment, Samael's body was but a mere tool to fulfill the task he had come here for. And fulfill it he did indeed.


	15. Chapter 15

Four men were hunching over the ailing fire they'd managed to kindle in the frozen wasteland. They were all of different nation, different profession and definitely of different mind; yet they were traveling together with the common intention. The taciturn Brother of the Chantry hailing from Rivain, the sickly elven healer of the Kirkwall Circle of Magi, one Templar hulk of a man also from Kirkwall and the crude headsman from Anderfels who seemed to be unable to get his hands off the polished great-sword which had taken so many lives the headsman himself lost count years ago.

"Stop squeezing toward me, ya bugger!" a mumbled threat was carried away by the howling wind as the headsman lashed out at the pale little mage who had been shivering in his robes during the whole journey north. "Or I'll squeeze ya back all right," he hawked before he spat out a huge brownish spit, watching it as it turned into ice disturbingly fast.

"Disgusting…" the Brother granted the headsman an outraged glance as he tightened his heavy winter cloak lined with fur around his torso.

"If ya has anything to say, say it into my phizog, priest!" The headsman seemed to grow taller and wider with every word.

"L-l-leave him alone!" the little one burst out squealing and the headsman's nostrils flared in rage to the little one's presumption.

"Silence! All of you!" Templar's thunderous voice overpowered them, ending the quarrel at once.

None of them was aware they had been watched by the pair of vigilant black eyes for two days now. Fawn's horse was an Antivan thoroughbred and the poor beast froze to death last night, so the Hero of Fereldan was forced to quite ingloriously continue on foot. He indeed thanked the Creators for the blizzard raging all day and evening, so Meredith's envoys were not much faster on their horses than he was on foot.

"Did you hear that?" the headsman flinched and glanced around; his eyes fruitlessly trying to pierce the whirling snow. The four unwilling companions looked up in disquiet, turning their backs towards the fire as they started searching the vicinity.

"Old jumpy whiskey-soaked wimp…" the Templar hissed at the headsman, but even his eyes were roving around the endless white wasteland.

"We should all calm down," the Brother placed his soothing hands on both men's shoulders, but there was but one calm soul in that Creators-forgotten land, and that soul was huddled among the stunted trees not even sixty feet from them; calm and motionless as he pleased.

"I'm tellin' ya this ain't gonna end well," the headsman's sneer was gone and suddenly he was grateful for other three men by his side. Well, two and a half, since he didn't consider the tiny elf a man.

"Stop that croaking, old man," the Templar growled the doomsayer silent. "I am bound to escort you to the prisoner and see to it that the execution is carried out in the name of the Knight-Commander Meredith. And escort you to the prisoner I will," he added after a moment, as though he was not sure whether he was telling this to his companions or to himself.

_So, the Templar woman in Kirkwall was not lying. They are one merry bunch of murderers indeed._

"Who would follow us through this Maker-unkissed barren anyway…" the Templar attempted to sound jovially, but his voice was choked by the strengthening blizzard.

_Just little insignificant old me…_

"Do you even know for whom are we carrying the death sentence, Templar?" Apparently, it was the mage's turn to sound timorous and yet he dared address the Templar directly.

_Well, I do._

"Don't know. Don't care," the Templar shrugged, but something was preventing him from sitting down and tending to the fire.

_Creators, I haven't been so cold since the Fort Drakon…_

"It's Hawke," the Brother deferentially pronounced the name which carried such weight throughout the Free Marches. "It's the old Malcolm Hawke. Do you really think his son is going to let us execute him like some petty horse-thief?"

_And they say the Chantry folks are born stupid…_

"His son—" the Templar rudely interrupted the priest and his words were abounding with spiteful mockery, "—is confined to his showy mansion and jumps as Meredith whistles. Champion of Kirkwall my ass…" he snorted and spat out as if that fancy title had left bad taste on his tongue.

_And it appears his son has a puppet of his own that jumps as he whistles._

"And who said he's going to do it himself?" the little mage asked the next logical question. "Doesn't he have like his own little private army?"

_Huh, I thought I'd freeze here to death. Now I think I'll expire of boredom instead._

"I will not listen to your wailing anymore," the tensed Templar lost his joviality when he scolded his companions, looming over them, and thus he had missed the silent shadow figure slowly materializing out of the snow dancing around it in wide circles. The Templar didn't even have to look behind his back to realize someone was standing there; motionless, ominous, biding time, until the reasons of his presence here in the middle of nowhere were known.

"Y-y-you are welcome to warm up your chilled flesh at our fire, pilgrim," the mage took a hesitant step towards the stranger. As though commanded by some invisible power, they all glanced at their pitiful pile of charred wood that did not deserve to be named a fire anymore.

"We have only a little to share with you, fellow wayfarer, but join us in this terrible weather," the Brother showed his palms in peace to the ever still newcomer.

No response came.

"State your business, vagrant!" the headsman shrieked as he reached for his ageless steel companion. He'd just had enough of the silent stranger. "Are you deaf?!" he ripped the longest blade Fawn had ever seen from an unadorned plain sheathe that spoke of age and long hard use.

The headsman's head started playfully bouncing through the freshly fallen snow, spraying it with dark drops of steaming blood, and the heavy great-sword fell inaudibly into the snow as well which mercifully accepted it and covered it and its sins along with it. No one moved at first; too appalled to do anything, and it was at this precise moment Fawn chose to answer the question.

"Greetings, my fellow travellers," he nonchalantly swung the blood-stained sword through the frosty air and performed an obeisance which would at different time, different place, was considered graceful and irresistible. Then he stated the obvious: "I've come to kill you."

oOo

After his rash departure from the Gallows, Hawke realized with unbelievable slowness this whole poisoning business was the most stark raving mad idea he had ever conceived.

"This is too soon," he kept hissing through the clenched teeth as he stumbled through the gate leading to Hightown and his innards started to knot as they were squeezed by the cold claw of merciless poison. '"No, no, no…" he moaned as he was barely able to stand on his feet; still far from home. The white walls of Hightown liquefied in front of him; the world turned upside down, wailing of the newborns and dying ones was equally echoing in vast emptiness of his mind.

_An old man in tattered rags, staring out of the little barred window with longing for his freedom, yet his eyes were burnt-out._

Plodding forward while leaning heavily against the wall, Samael had not yet experienced the worst symptoms of poison. His arms clearing away the spider's net springing from the walls, the burning eyes frantically blinking in search of a single clear picture about what was going on around him, a lone thought forcing him to keep walking; just to make yet another step forward, step home, step leading to the nice blackened kettle filled with warm swirling antidote.

Someone giggled and Hawke turned his head just in time to glimpse an emerald eye disappearing around a corner. Hawke tried to call out at her for he knew who she was, but not a single sound got through his swollen tongue and bloodless lips. Stalking Merrill's ghost seemed like a good idea indeed. He had been doing that for years after all, so why not now?

_Two men holding blades at each other's throats although any of them would die for the other one first._

"Feeling a little lost, sugar?" That voice came to Hawke through the shimmering barrier of silence as he kept studying the texture of the walls beneath his fingers. The wall was white no longer and at this point Samael was vaguely aware it was supposed to be white in order to find the Hawke estate and save himself. "Maybe I can help you find what you're looking for," the same voice suggested when no response came from the swaying, muttering stranger.

"Wh—" Hawke rasped before the cough threatened to tear his lungs apart. "Where… am… I…" he managed to wheeze.

"Lowtown, sugar," a slow response came as the whore took a cautious step backwards.

Having really no other choice than to beg for help, Hawke launched forward and grasped the woman by her shoulders. His whispered plea was unfortunately smothered by the woman squealing for help for it was a foolish and simple creature indeed. "Devon?" she shrieked as she tried to shake the rough hands off her. "Devoooon!" she burst out screaming for her pander who was always nearby, looking out for his consumer goods as he lovingly called his flock of flesh.

The world spun with Samael as he was no longer the master of his own bones, flesh and mind. He felt a little bit the coldness of a short blade pressed against his gut, the woman's boney fingers groping for his pouch of coins attached to his belt and a pair of popping out eyes – savage dark eyes set deep in eye-sockets of a ruthless man who may have been human once.

Hawke was the only one who glimpsed the shadow slip behind the backs of his sneering captors who took him no doubt for some drunken high-born who had gotten lost in Lowtown; never to emerge from it again. There was a low growl, less than a snarl, the muscles contracted, the black claws scratched up dirt, the fur bristled, all that without any real sound of lethal threat, but Devon must have heard something nonetheless because he started to turn just as the mabari made its leap. All three of them went down together while the woman started screeching yet again, though it did not occur to her to run away.

Even when the fight to death between the beast and a pander took place right next to Hawke, the sounds of it were distant to his ears. The hound's jaw was working its way infallibly to the man's throat while he barely kept the ferocious beast off him with his one arm while the other one; the one holding the short blade, was entangled in his cloak.

Finally the arm broke free while Devon howled a victorious shout, pointing the cruel heartseeker right into the mabari's well-built torso. There seemed to be nothing to stop the man from plunging the blade through the fur right into the mabari's heart.

Nothing and no one, unless Samael stopped lying there like a fucking rag doll, waiting to be fucked up by some Lowtown fucking worm! Hawke scolded himself properly as he grabbed the sharp end of blade with his both hands, feeling as the blade cut well and cut deep into his numb flesh. This gesture of sacrifice was enough for the mabari to have the man under the jaw finally. His last cry lasted less than a second before the hound wrenched back its head with what was left of the man's throat in its maw.

"Cha… Charon?" was the first self-evident thought which formed in Hawke's muddled mind as the hound padded closer, sniffed at Samael's bloodied fingers, then licked at the cuts with a wet rough tongue. It was only at this moment Samael was finally able to take a thorough look at his unexpected saviour.

It was the white mabari.

oOo

Unaware of the dire situation Hawke was in, Fawn seemed to forget how he had ended up in the middle of northern wasteland as he stood above the headsman's corpse. Three things then happened.

The Brother; his eyes the size of an egg, fell to his knees and his hands clasped in prayer as he started rocking back and forth, frantically muttering the first part of the Chant of Light he remembered. The mage shrank back as Fawn threw his heavy winter cloak away and ceremonially pointed his sword at him. If the Templar was surprised about how things got out of hand so quickly, he recovered just as fast from that shock when he engaged the arcane warrior in a vicious battle which ended as suddenly as it had started.

The three companions were kneeling in the trampled snow, the fourth one was cooling beside them and his body was slowly disappearing beneath the falling snow. The only hearable sound right now was quiet hissing as the wounded Templar kept frenetically reveling in shallow breaths while he was pressing his hands onto the grave wound Fawn had inflicted upon him.

"B-by the mercy o-of our Lord—" the Brother started whimpering as he bowed his head, unable to grant Mahariel a single straight look.

"Who's Lord?" Fawn chuckled, cocking his head as though intrigued by the murmuring priest. "Yours? Mine?" he continued and the Brother only squeaked out when Fawn's sturdy leather boots lined with fur and disappearing beneath the silver shin pads stopped right in front of him. "As for you, _Templar_," the elven blade carved a narrow trail in the snow as he strolled towards him, "I really have nothing to say to you," the scornful whisper died away as the blade whizzed through the freezing air and Templar's head joined headsman's one in their private rolling party.

"Next?" Fawn raised an eyebrow at the two remaining companions.

"Come no further for I will stop you," the tiny elven mage stepped forward with his staff drawn, but tremble in his voice and shivers on his skin somehow smothered the gravity of his words.

"What is your name?" Fawn nonchalantly interrupted the act of bravery as much as folly.

"My… What?" the tiny mage stammered.

"Your name, maggot!" Fawn's nostrils flared in disfavour.

"Raenion of the Kirkwall Circle," the quiet answer came from the startled mage.

"So, Raenion of the Kirkwall Circle. You dare…!" Fawn's eyes burnt in blatant ire when he turned to the skinny daredevil. "You dare raise your staff against one of your own?!" he crept towards the mage as he pronounced his accusation. Such solemnity; such justifiable outrage was emanating from the Hero of Fereldan at that horrifying moment, that he indeed looked like an ancient prince of Arlathan – the very son of the Creators who had fallen away from their grace.

The priest forgot to pray in sight of such astounding scene, the staff dropped out of Raenion's loosened fingers as he genuflected in front of the pure-blooded elf. "My lord," he faltered, "forgive me," he bowed his head in acceptance of death for straying away from the way of the Dalish. For serving the Chantry, for kneeling in front of the humans, though he knew nothing else in his lifetime since he had been born captive, knowing no other life than the one at the Circle.

The Brother's hands convulsively clenching in his tawdry pray, the Sword of the Brecilian Forest outstretched and ready to strike, Raenion's arms laid gracefully by his sides as he meekly awaited with his eyes closed the ultimate death blow until it indeed came.

When Raenion's eyes shot open, he was the only one alive apart from Fawn.

"I've never laid my hand nor my sword upon one of my brethren," Fawn kneeled down to face the astonished mage. "Though your face is not marked with Vallaslin, though you no longer recognize your ancestors and no longer pray to the Creators, I hereby liberate you from the Chantry's yoke," Fawn's long pale fingers gently traced the bloodless face of an unexpected kin he had found in this frozen wasteland. "Take the horse and go in peace, my brother," he rose to his full height, bringing Raenion up along with him.

Fawn thoroughly searched the corpses, seemingly unaware of Raenion intently watching his every move. He indeed found what he was looking for – the flat leather satchel which bore all documents required to carry on Malcolm's execution, detailed orders of the whole operation and two fat pouches of silver coins to pay off all spending. Only imperceptible sneer of satisfaction twisted his beautiful elven face when Mahariel stripped the Chantry priest naked and carefully folded the holy shroud into his drawstring bag. Oh, he would need one of those very soon, if he was not sorely mistaken.

"Wait!" Raenion shrieked in panic when it was clear Mahariel intended to simply turn around and leave. "What am I to do?" he reached his liberator by running. "What am I to do now?" he hung on Fawn's lips in suspense, waiting for any guidance from his fellow Dalish.

"Do whatever you like," Fawn shrugged and bent down for his heavy traveler's cloak.

"Whatever I _like_?" Raenion repeated the words as though Mahariel was insane.

"Precisely," Fawn fastened the cloak on his left shoulder with a massive elaborate clip and threw the satchel and his own bag over his other shoulder. "Namárië, my brother," he briefly touched Raenion's forearm. "Until we meet again," he granted him a lofty mirthless smile, mounted the best horse and left.

Long stood Raenion of the Dalish there, watching the prints of Fawn's horse in the snow until they slowly disappeared.

oOo

Hawke was unwilling to believe, as he tumbled down by some door and then looked up, that there was a rapper shaped into a hawk head hanging right above his head, telling him he indeed tumbled at the right spot. The white mabari led him through the early morning chilling shadows, through the terrors caused by the venom when it unfolded dreadful scenes in front of his eyes, accompanying him through the purgatory and out again until the Hawke estate mercifully shadowed their silhouettes.

"Help… Anybody…" Hawke rasped as he clawed at the door which started twisting and vibrating beneath his fingers. The white mabari helped him in his endeavor by poking the door with its paw.

Two pairs of arms grasped Hawke underneath his shoulders, but he didn't seem to perceive the dwarves anymore. "Shooo!" Bodahn attempted to drive away the white mabari, but it just glanced at him with superiority and sneaked inside between his legs. Devastated by his Master's frightful state, the old butler was for a moment able to but wring his hands and yowl in dwarven tongue while Sandal simply stood across the room, picking his nose and trying to comprehend what had gone wrong this time.

"Evaliir'Enevahr," a quiet voice entered Bodahn's heart-rending wailing. "Calm down," she repeated in the tongue of men. Hawke's body was writhing in uncontrollable spasms by then, gall oozing out of his mouth as though his guts were boiling. The worst sound came from his choked gurgles as he tried to catch the breath and scream in unspeakable pain at the same time. Merrill took her time as she strolled towards the man lying on the cold floor since Bodahn didn't dare set him on a divan from which he would have fallen down no doubt. "We've got only little time left," she whispered to herself when she realized the spasms were relenting a little. "Move him!" Her order slashed the silence interrupted only by Hawke's attempts to breathe which was dreadful enough sound to listen to since it sounded as though he was being ripped apart from the inside. "Leave us," she ordered the dwarves once Hawke was settled on the carpet in his bedroom, still trashing around and bawling incoherent pleas.

Bodahn had no idea what was happening in that room behind closed door, but he was indeed glad he was not forced to witness it. Inhuman roars of inhuman pain were soon replaced by hushed groans, until there was nothing but cadaveric silence left. It was only then when Bodahn dared tiptoe towards the door, too afraid to open them, and even more afraid not to. A sigh of relief melted on his lips as he glanced around the devastated room, stopped at the empty pot of freshly boiled anti-venom, Merrill's myriad of flasks with potions and decoctions which were currently spilled everywhere, some objects he even didn't want to know what they were, until his gaze found two beings curled up together on the mattress with no blankets or pillows on it.

There was no way to tell where Merrill ended or where Samael started in that entanglement. Just as there was no way to guess what would any of them do were they to lose the other.

oOo

Malcolm Hawke was most certainly not what you would call a polite prisoner, or a silent one for that matter. It was as though he took into his head he would resist to whatever the guards would require of him to do which had been leading so far to the sad fact he was beaten up all the time and the guards made his life just as miserable as he pushed their buttons every Maker's day.

He would throw the shallow earthenware bowl with some gunge instead of food against the wall, shouting as long as they brought him yet another shallow bowl with the same gunge; only wooden this time, so he would not smash it as well. Malcolm would then spurt the smelly water they had been providing him with into the guard's face, guffawing like a mad man until the retaliation came. Then it was usually the guards who were guffawing, but Malcolm considered it a fair deal. Sometimes he would stay awake all night long, singing from the top of his lungs seemingly never-ending Kossith tunes, until he was knocked unconscious by the guard on duty who had lost his nerve with the insufferable mage. Then there were days when Malcolm remained curled up in a ball; apathetic to anything and anyone around him, which were usually followed by days when he provoked fights, shattered anything breakable around him and if nothing remained, then he clawed at walls with his bare hands, shooting spells in all directions, and raged around his confined cell or banged anything he had on the iron bars, driving the already frenzied guards straight mad.

That urgent hammering on the chapel door came in the early morning, well before dawn.

"State your business!" the shrimpy Templar barked through the cracked open door.

"For the love of our Maker, let me in, please let me in! Let me in!" the priest whimpered until his plea turned into wordless wailing. Briefly examining the newcomer, the Templar obeyed and shut the door tight behind the Brother's back. Fawn considered that sound as his death-knell, and he shivered indeed beneath his borrowed Chantry tunic. He prayed however the guards would not spot the suspicious blood stains all around his disguise; the silent witness of the real priest's decapitation.

"Captain? Captain! You've got to see this!" the Templar squalled over his shoulder as he observed the trembling Chantry Brother with perverted curiosity.

"Thank you, thank you, Maker's child," Fawn clumsily patted the imp's shoulder, "may He repays you your kindness—" he kept murmuring, but the sly voice inside of his head had yet another postscript to add.

_… and may He blesses my blade as I thrust it into you, Templar._

"What happened to you, you Chantry rat?" the imp chortled as he playfully bashed the shy Brother between his shoulder blades.

"I beg your pardon," Fawn squealed and tremulously headed further into cosy side room which appeared to be former sacristy where the fireplace was crackling and emanating soothing warmth and light.

"What's this goddamn racket all about?" the Captain swayed into the room and Fawn needn't bother turning around to realize there was an enemy indeed fit to fight the Hero of Fereldan. A huge beefy-guy with hands alike to shovels; his seasoned face was beardless with a pair of watchful eyes and hollow cheeks. Though he was not an old man, only a few wisps of ginger hair yet remained to him, sprouting above his ears in dramatic curls, but those he had grown long as a woman's. His Templar armor was battered and unadorned, and it looked like it had been protecting the warrior in many scuffles. Above his left shoulder the ragged leather hilt of the blade strapped to his back was visible; a two-handed great-sword which was simply too long to be worn at his side.

Before anyone could answer the question, Fawn whirled around and performed a ludicrously deep bow, nervously tugging on the hood to pull it as much over his face as he could.

"Brother Wardell at your service, honorable men of honorable Templar order," he pronounced with the purest Rivain accent he was able to fake. "As agreed, we rode out of Kirkwall three days ago with the execution order, but as you can see, only I was blessed enough to actually reach the Swan's Swamp – charming little place you have here, let me give you that," Fawn kept muttering his thoughts as they came and he even managed to empty the imp's goblet of wine to which the shrimpy Templar frowned. "The bandits chased us down one by one, until they got all but m-m-me," Mahariel mewed his story while his eyes secretly roved around the room, getting familiar with the surroundings.

Only one way out, high oblong latticed windows, cold tall stone walls; the Templars had clearly turned this once holy place into a stronghold for the prisoners, and into a trap for the strangers.

"You don't say," the Templar colossus grumbled as he kept twirling what was left of his hair around his finger. A gesture definitely not fit for a warrior, as Fawn had noticed. "And how come an inexperienced Chant of whatever thumper escapes the horde of dreadful bandits while the other three guardians fall to an ambush?" the Captain asked a seemingly relaxed question, but a warning bell rang twice in Fawn's head. The Templar Captain knew much more about Fawn's story than he was prone to admit, but just how much exactly remained to be seen.

"I had a narrow escape indeed, enlightened by the Maker's grace for it was He who decided to keep me alive to deliver the Knight-Commander's orders." Fawn ceremonially handed the satchel over to the Captain; cautiously keeping his face hidden from the Captain's inquiring eyes. "I am to speak to the condemned man, soothe him in his last hour and see his sinful soul off to the Maker's hands. For He forgives those who repent in their la—"

"Pardon me, Brother, but I've got a question for you." The Captain sauntered toward the man of faith and Fawn knew at that very moment his carefully concocted ploy was doomed and Malcolm along with it. What exactly had gone wrong though? Did Raenion run straight here? Had Fawn been spotted during his journey north or even while he was dealing with the headsman and his fellows? There was yet another obvious alternative but Fawn forbade himself to even think about it. _About him._

This wishful shy thought was mercilessly murdered the moment Zevran Aranai strode into the room. His face was unreadable at first when their eyes locked into a long telling gaze. Some weird hurting grimace then twisted the Crow's face as if he was in pain, vicious sneer distorted his handsome features, an odd longing flashed within his golden eyes which were infallibly set on the newcomer whose face was still shielded with a hood.

"Yes, our mutual friend informed me of what's happened." The Captain dryly stated the obvious and ordered his men with but his eyes to get ready and hold the strategic spots around the chapel. "Will you remove your hood by yourself or do you require my assistance to do so, _elf_?" he mocked the ever still silent and motionless fake Brother of the Chantry.

"No need," Fawn replied with his husky melodic voice and the Rivain accent magically disappeared. He slowly turned away from the Crow to face the Captain, inch by inch, as though he was teasing Zevran to leap forward and bury every blade he had on him into the back of a man who had betrayed him. In the meantime, Fawn's mind was frantically working on the solution for he desperately needed to come up with a smart plan if he was to succeed and free Malcolm and now even himself from the hands of zealots and Templars. And even if he managed that, he'd still have a ghost of past right behind his back, waiting for an opportunity to strike him down.

Zevran appeared to forget breathing when Fawn's arms soared up and the men around tightened their grasp on their weapons at the same moment. One graceful move and the hood was thrown back and Fawn's silverish hair shone in their elven beauty. Not a muscle moved on his face decorated with Dalish elaborate blood writing. Not a single move gave away his agitation after his arms slowly descended down by his sides again.

Zevran's eyes were hungrily drinking in the phantom of his conscious he had been chasing, the memory of what could have been, the excruciating memorial of love and betrayal. Finally, finally he would be able to pay off Fawn's perfidy and pretended love with blood and thus complete his only business unfinished. Just to throw a blade, put a sword through that treacherous pretender, smother life out of him while screaming from an inch into his face about the pain Fawn had deliberately condemned him to live with.

While was Zevran contemplating the worst possible death he could have come up with to avenge his wounded pride, Fawn realized he could not afford to dally and wait for others to decide this dead-end situation. Ripping the Chantry shroud off him, he hurled it against the Captain's face for he posed the only real threat for Mahariel probably in this whole village apart from the Antivan Crow. By the time the Captain managed to free himself from the fabric with much swearing and brandishing around, four of his men were already dead or dying.

Zevran hissed some spicy curse when he was swept off his feet along with the others when Fawn thrust his blade into the wooden floor to nourish a powerful spell, enabling him to escape. And while his better judgment was brazenly yelling at him to get the hell out of that forsaken place which could easily turn into his tombstone, he headed for the dungeon. Knowing they were right after him, Fawn flew down the breakneck stairs and barred the door behind him as effectively as he was able to.

Once alone, if only for a single breathtaking minute, Fawn listened attentively to the sounds of the frowsty underground. Water dripping off the vault in an unnerving staccato, mice rustling in the moist haystacks, oppressive silence into which the clamor of the approaching Templars crept.

And music. Mellifluous deep tones sang in a foreign tongue. It was hair-raising to listen to such lovely tune in such a dismal place. Fawn's legs unconsciously carried him to the cell from which the song burdened by the sadness of the mortals emanated before it abruptly died away.

"Malcolm?" the elf asked the man huddled in a corner. His question was very quiet, right above a whisper. "Malcolm Hawke?" he strengthened his voice when no reaction came from the old man dressed in shreds of fabric of doubtful color and quality.

"He ain't here," a hollow answer finally resounded out of the cell. "He ain't even among living no more," the same voice grumbled this time. "How could he in this Maker abandoned sty?!" he cackled before the waves of devastating cough took over his body.

Fawn whirled around when the barred door jerked in hinges as the Templars tried to wreck it down. "I'm out of time," he desperately watched as the door was about to yield. A loud clang followed when Fawn shattered the lock on Malcolm's cell with a haste spell, but even that wouldn't wake the old mage up from his mulish indifference.

"Let's go!" Fawn attempted to drag Malcolm up to his feet, but he jerked before the elf could actually touch him.

"I ain't going nowhere, elf! Leave me be!" Hawke's hostility caught Fawn off his guard, so he rather stepped back, though the frantic thuds on the barred door did not let him forget the Templars were about to flood the dungeon. "I won't go. I _cannot_ go…" the old Hawke muttered merely to himself.

"Ud'Raan...!" Fawn swore in his own tongue before he snatched the elder man by his shoulders and roughly pulled his unwilling body up. "Listen to me, old man," he demanded. "Listen!" he shook him as his voice thundered throughout the dungeon, when Malcolm's face stubbornly remained turned away from him. "I'm not going to die here, do you hear me?! And neither do you! I've sworn an oath to your son I would bring you back unharmed and unharmed I shall b—"

"My son?" Malcolm's face lit up with hope and his milky white eyes shone with moisture, though he still seemed to have difficulties to look at his liberator. "My son is coming for me? Of course he is! He's my son!" he kept on blubbering while his boney fingers were desperately clutching Fawn's leather breast piece wrought with silver.

"Malcolm?" Fawn shook the old man again to end his ramble, but fear dominated in that word this time as the petrifying suspicion crept up on him. "Can you _see_ me?" he asked in a small voice, knowing the answer already.

"No," Malcolm breathed out before he broke down into tears. "No, I can't. They keep me drained out of my powers all the time," he kept sobbing when he hid in the arms which he could not see like an abused child. "I have some unique circumstances, as you can see," he remarked through the bitter tears and briefly touched his eyelids with two uncontrollably quivering fingers. "Normally I draw my ability to see from the Fade, it is exhausting indeed, but I manage. But now—" he faltered and ran the fingers through the veil of matted hair, smudging the tears across his face with his other hand.

"All right..." Fawn murmured when he had finally clear overview of what they were facing. "All right," he repeated, "we can still do this. It could still work. Right..." his voice faded away as he led the old blind man toward the door leading further into the dungeon. He shoved Malcolm through it and made a stand right between the cellars when the barred door were breached.

"They're here!" The first beast of a Templar entering the dungeon howled as a famished rat smelling fresh blood. The Templar horde was half-way across the vast cellar when Fawn was done with his devastating spell. The massive vault became loose and the scenery of men being buried beneath the brash was not for weak minds to behold. Once the screaming and moaning died away, Fawn's narrowed eyes inspected what appeared to be the grave of many members of an honorable Templar order.

"That should slow them down a little, I suppose," he droned when he picked up Malcolm who obediently sat where he had been thrown earlier.

"What was it?" Hawke asked in awe. "It sounded as if the whole damn chapel just collapsed on us..."

"Maybe, just maybe, it did," Fawn retorted as he wrapped his left arm around the weakened old mage. "We must hurry," he dismissed any other question Hawke might have had.

After a half an hour they climbed out of what appeared to be an elaborate system of underground tunnels, only to realize the Captain had been waiting for them the whole time right there.

"Impressive," the Captain uttered a sound when Fawn seemed unable to find his wits for now. "Give up the mage, _elf_. There's an execution to be done and I would not see it marred by some knife-ear," he slowly unsheathed his deathly great-sword Fawn had admired before.

Mahariel was at a loss there. He was alone against many and his only ally was an old blind man.

"Look at him," the Captain continued in his mocking soliloquy, "scared like a little birdie, pissing its pointy-eared pants wet like a bitch afraid of master's whip!" he spluttered his spiteful outburst at Mahariel and his men rewarded him with clamant laughter. It occurred to Fawn, that the Captain may have not been familiarized with a fact the _elf_, as he abusively addressed him, was also a _mage_. Otherwise he would have mentioned it, right? So, Zevran kept this viable information from him, did he? Why? Well, Fawn knew exactly why. Zevran wanted him for himself. He wanted to hold Fawn's life in his own hands, to live through that eluding moment when Fawn's fate was at his whim, before he naturally decided to take his life from him.

But now – Zevran stood there among the braying Templars, ghastly pale, taciturn, motionless; just his eyes frantically roving around the glade the fugitives emerged at from the tunnels. Fawn was aware this was not how the Crow pictured their ultimate clash. He would have no doubt preferred they met alone during some starless warm night at white beaches of Llomeryn and fucked each other silly before trying to kill one another. No; watching Fawn being pierced by myriads of arrows, stuck through and through with Templar blades only to be decapitated afterwards most definitely didn't fit into Zev's romantic idea of their brief bloody reunion. But this was an immediate outcome of his precipitate actions when the Crow decided to lure Mahariel into a trap.

Some hysteric thin voice within Fawn's head was trying to convince him there still was a chance to pull this off. To fulfill what he'd promised to Samael. To himself.

"Do you want the mage?" Fawn stepped forward and looked straight into the Captain's face. "Come and claim him, but only over my dead body," he proclaimed and watched as the Captain was growing nervous. He indeed must have seen something much more than an insignificant elf within Mahariel, since his vicious sneer slowly faded and he glanced around the glade in sudden insecurity.

"Archers...!" he suddenly raised his hand in direct command to nock the arrows and aim at the elf. "Shoot the son of a bitch!" he roared a second before the blade thin as a needle ran through his throat. The command had been issued; the arrows had been released, only to get repulsed off the elf and Malcolm by the shimmering silver barrier. Zevran's heart missed a beat and then another when he was given the privilege to see once again that painfully familiar arcane shield which had been once protecting him too what seemed like eons ago.

Stampede through the woods which were growing thick and impassable turned into bloodshed. Fawn dragged the half-unconscious Hawke along with him, driving off whoever dared stand in his way, but not without a price. He sustained several minor wounds, yet that was not what worried him the most. Zevran had disappeared right after Fawn fled the glade and the Hero was sure he would be waiting for him somewhere for he would have done the very same thing.

Right after Fawn had put his sword through yet another Templar hell-bent on capturing them both alive, it happened. The elf indeed registered some scuffle not far behind them, but then an alarmed single voice shouted "No!" and Fawn felt the arrow piercing his flesh, tearing it mercilessly apart. The arrow hit him viciously from behind into the shoulder blade, knocking him down to his knees.

As Mahariel knelt there, thinking about what had happened, he heard from great distance Malcolm's panicked voice shouting something irrelevant; he heard the sounds of a nearby battle, yet all that seemed insignificant. Did just Zevran shoot him in the back? Well, it definitely sounded like what an Antivan Crow would do. But Fawn had never perceived Zevran just as the Crow. He may have done things; awful things to him, but they did not justify a cruel arrow stuck in his back. Or did they?

Someone landed in a skid right in front of the wounded arcane warrior, gloves fell through the freshly fallen snow as the warm hands cupped his face where a gentle smile froze as the memories of happier time whirled through Fawn's head.

"No, no, no, I didn't want this, I swear, Fawn, look at me, you must know I did not wish for this..."

Fawn was able to make out Zevran's tanned face which looked rather inappropriate among the heaps of snow, hear his ardent endearments in the ear, feel his arms wrapped tight around him.

"If you just stopped lying for a minute," Fawn heard himself responding in bitterness. "This is precisely what you have wished for during all those long sleepless nights which you were not able to fill even with whores, liquor and good kill. You whispered of vengeance night by night, I know you did. Now you have an opportunity, oh mighty Zevran Aranai of the infamous Antivan Crows – an opportunity which shan't ever repeat again," Fawn's face twisted in stabbing pain as he wrenched his shoulders out of the Crow's grasp. "You better seize it and do whatever you have to do," he licked his numb lips and bit the lower one as the pain prevailed. Oh, he would rather die a thousand times before Zevran would see him begging for his life.

"You're right," Zevran set his jaw and rose to his full height; looking down at the ever still kneeling elf in solemn silence, "I should have done this a year ago," he whispered as he drew the sword which looked like a larger replica of the needle-like little blade Fawn had seen before.

"You should have," Fawn called upon his strength which was abandoning him quickly and shrugged, so his face was warped by yet another wave of pain pulsing within the arrow wound. "You _could_ have," he slowly looked up at his tormentor who looked like Fawn's words couldn't cut any deeper. That long intense gaze of the eyes blacker than the bottom of an abyss reminded Zevran that he indeed had many possibilities beyond count to take the life of the Hero of Fereldan for they had been lovers for many months. They fought many battles back-to-back, they went through many adventures side-by-side, they lay in each other's arms every night and when they didn't, they equally considered such night as wasted. "Do it," Fawn commanded the hesitant Crow.

Speechless after such direct behest, Zevran heaved the sword and watched the lethal blade and Fawn's resolved face in frantic turns.

"Do it," a hint of threat in those two words was now evident as Fawn's eyes narrowed in defiance.

"I'll do it…!" Zevran kept gulping the words he had yet to say to Mahariel, but couldn't.

"Sure, you'll do it. Now do it. Do it! DO IT!" Fawn lost last inhibitions as he kept shouting at the Crow over and over again to end his life and their misery along with it.

Fawn would never know whether Zevran Aranai would have killed him right there, at that remote place of twisted trees and frozen rocks, so unknown even the maps did not describe it in detail. Out of nowhere, a fist with a rock in it appeared and smacked Zevran over his head. He went down without a sound, though Fawn was able to catch his head and feel the stream of steaming blood which had started oozing out of the shallow cut right above the ear.

"Enough of the drama, pony-boys," Malcolm yanked the Hero up on his feet, oblivious to his severe wound.

"You see me…" Fawn pointed out the obvious as he tried to breathe the worst pain away.

"One of them Templars had lyrium on him," the old Hawke uttered when he started tending to the arrow wound. "I'm sure in my condition it won't last long, so you better hurry."

"_I_ better hurry?" Fawn's raised an eyebrow and hissed when Malcolm unexpectedly broke the arrow, leaving there but a stump, so it could be pulled out at first convenience. "I hope you meant _we_.

"Fawn," Malcolm bitterly cackled, "can I call you Fawn? I think we've been through quite a lot of shit together to reach that enigmatic first-names basis," he pressed the bandage around the arrow stump and dexterously fastened it there; once again ignoring the guttural groan of pain escaping Fawn's lips.

"You and your son, you two are more alike than I thought," Mahariel droned in discontent about how roughly, yet efficiently, his wound had been tended to. A bottle of healing potion stuck between his lips prevented him from sharing his other findings though. "Well, I've been better, I suppose, but it'll do," Fawn cautiously tried to move, only then he realized Malcolm was no longer by his side. He was leaning on the dead tree, inhaling shallow sharp breaths, shivering.

"What are you looking at?" he lashed out at the elf who was watching him in poorly hidden disquiet. "I've told you it would fade in no time. Soon I'll be no more than a blind crippled geezer again. There's nothing you could do to get me out of here alive," he shook his head and clawed at the tree bark in despair.

"Yes," Fawn slowly concurred with the old Hawke, his face thoughtful and distant. "Yes, there's nothing I in particular can do to help. However…" he fell silent as though he went through some inner fierce fight.

"However what…?" Hawke snorted and his arms slid down along the tree in acceptance of freezing to death.

"However…" Fawn murmured merely to himself. "Ugh, that's preposterous!" he shouted himself quiet. "But it is the only way," he remarked after a moment of arguing with himself. "So humiliating. So, so humiliating," he kept spluttering curses at his invisible advisor dwelling clearly in his head and then he kept swearing in Elvish tongue for a while before he strode toward the wilting old mage. "Malcolm Hawke," he addressed the mage and there was an odd stubborn resolve written all over his pose, "promise me that whatever now happens, you retrieve this sword and you carry it with you anywhere we go." Fawn then slowly unsheathed the blood-stained Sword of the Brecilian Forest, eyeing it, caressing it like a lover's body, before he ceremonially handed it over to the dumbfounded old mage.

Malcolm could have asked myriads of questions he had on his mind at the moment; he just didn't. He accepted the sword with a subtle bow and an oath on his lips instead.

"So, so demeaning…" Fawn sighed once again, but this time he sounded weary and reconciled with what was about to happen.

If Malcolm Hawke was amazed by the rite of the sword-keeping, what happened in the next second left him plain in awe.

When Zevran Aranai awoke after he was knocked unconscious, he found himself lying under the huge spruce tree, all swaddled in furs and cloaks of the fallen and his needle blade was missing. Out of himself with burning rage, he returned to place where he had been hurt, only to find nothing at all; no trace of the fugitives since the blizzard got worse and destroyed any trail they might have left behind them.

Darkness of his marred revenge took over Zevran's mind. He rampaged around the woods and when he reached the village again, he went completely berserk. At the end he was the only living soul far and wide and only the silent swamp could tell where all the villagers went and Zevran knew the swamp would keep his sins hidden forever.


	16. Chapter 16

Merrill woke up from her slumber with a jerk. A quick glance at the massive wall clock told her she had let herself go for just an hour. Her next look belonged to Hawke who was resting in Merrill's arms and only his rhythmically moving chest told her he survived yet another of his insane plots. When she tried to wiggle her fingers, Merrill realized her flattened arm was tingling, begging to be stretched, but she wouldn't have moved even if it meant to lose the arm. He was so close, yet Samael remained out of her reach, she thought to herself as she studied the pallid skin on his otherwise tanned face and deep dark circles beneath his eyes, speaking eloquently of the ordeal Hawke had deliberately put himself through. Why he insisted on punishing himself again and again? Did he not care for himself at all?

Merrill was a fatalist. She believed all free folks bore their fate from the very day they had been born, so why Samael kept questioning it out of spite? Why did he have to carry out the craziest things that had ever crossed his mind only to come up with something even more insane two days later?

Alone with her thoughts and not willing to disturb the slumberer, Merrill rested her head against her tingling arm again, glancing one more time at the man whose life she had saved once more. This time, he returned that inquisitive gaze and Merrill smiled in relief when those eyes were just as she remembered them; radiant amber and piercing their way straight into her soul.

"Let me guess - something went awfully wrong," the whisper was amplified by his burning eyes. He would have been able to count the tiny freckles on her nose if only he'd be able to stop looking into her eyes.

"Shhh," Merrill crooned him silent as her finger was smoothing out the deep wrinkle of vexation between his brows. "Bodahn has sent for me just in time and I took care of everything. Apparently Sandal destroyed the original antidote, so I had to scald a new one which I enhanced a little bit with the knowledge of my own people – may the Creators forgive me," she kept rambling and Hawke's light smile broadened. "I was… scared," Merrill's deep emerald eyes darkened as her mind went back to what she had witnessed at Hawke estate that night. "So afraid that I was too late, that you would not survive the first period of poison, that—" she abruptly stopped herself, violently shaking her head.

"— that the antidote wouldn't work at all, which we will know in a few days," he quietly vocalized the greatest fear. "If I drop dead three days from now, the whole Thedas will know how crappy healer you are, I'll make sure of that," Samael found the strength to tease her even now. Her apparent disapproval with such crude joke was forgotten once he reached for her hand and hid it in his both palms as his eyes slowly closed.

"I felt as if I was dying," he slowly voiced the darkest thoughts as they formed within his mind, "and I sought that death with a desire I had never known before," he looked up at her worried face; ashamed for his weakness. "But then you called out to me. Even through all that pain and nightmare, I heard your voice so clearly as if you were right in my head," he shook his head and blinked the terrors of that night away. "I realized there was something I wanted even more than this black silence of death." He felt silent then, but the eyes burning on her flushed skin, the rough hands exploring her tensed body, that pang of want which always smoldered within his heart; all that let Merrill know whom Hawke spoke of.

What could Merrill say or do after that confession? However indirect and obscured, they were the most beautiful words to her ears; the only words she would have given up everything for once. But would she break her promise given to her people for them? For him? A constant battle had been raging within the Keeper's head ever since she realized Samael was still hers, as much as she was still his. The waves of deepest despair were regularly replaced by the bursts of helpless anger as was Merrill battling both her feelings for the human lord and the persistent voice of reason commanding her to live up to her word and wilt in the lonesome life of a Keeper who puts the welfare of her people above all else.

They both took a breath as if to say something; anything from that myriad of questions they had for each other, but sudden commotion downstairs by the front door was an un-welcomed intrusion.

"I'll take care of it," Merrill gently pushed him down on the bed again when Samael attempted to climb out of it and investigate. Her hands lingered on the warm skin beneath them much longer than it was necessary since if Hawke could have been tamed by anyone, anytime, it was indeed her touch and her touch only.

"—but I must insist on your immediate departure, Captain. My master would not be disturbed in the middle of night! Surely you can come back in the morning."

"I am warning you one last time, Sir Dwarf, do not force my hand!"

"You should demonstrate a little respect, Captain! It's the future Viscount you are talking about and—"

"I'm well aware about where I am and who he is, Serah Feddic, and you have ten seconds before I have my men remove you and your son out of my way!"

"This is brazen-faced scandal! I would not stand for this! Do you expect me to—"

"Silence!" Merrill's command hit them as if it was a whip and the heated quarrel seemed to be over at once.

"And of course it's the Keeper, what a surprise!" Cullen almost groaned his accusation as though Hawke and his Dalish mistress had nothing better to do than to constantly test his patience.

"Aneth'ara, Cullen," Merrill gracefully turned her palms toward the Templar in gesture of peace but it enraged him even more instead as he had glimpsed the narrow cuts on her wrists as she was enhancing the antidote with her blood magic. "I trust you have a very good reason for this late visit…?" she cautiously asked and her brows quizzically quirked.

"Spare me your two-faced pleasantries, Keeper." Cullen was clearly pushed to his limits as he strode forward and Merrill seemed genuinely confused by his unusual impetuosity. "I would see Hawke right now or, Maker help me, I'll have you dragged to the Gallows and your clan along with you by the time this night is up!"

Facing the infuriated Templar whom she had considered a reluctant ally until now, Merrill faltered. A conciliatory smile broke through her mask of insecurity, but the Templar who no longer recognized good from wrong mistook it for open mockery. With a frustrated cry, he cast the butler blocking his way aside and rushed up the stairs. The long Templar sword glinted as it caught the light from a single lit up fireplace and Cullen was no longer master of his own mind.

"Not a step forward, Cullen!" a domineering voice thundered throughout the vast chamber and just for a second Cullen thought the Maker Himself had descended from heavens and spoke up. He was to realize very soon how he was mistaken, but it was enough for him to lower the sword for now and put himself together again as Hawke measuredly passed by the spooked elf and came half-way down the stairs until he and Cullen stood face to face.

"Hawke," the Templar cleared his throat once he was done gaping at the Champion who was both enigmatic and menacing in his silence. "Well, hum, you're here," was all Cullen could have come up with at that moment.

"I fail to see why I should _not_ be here," Samael retorted with much more pungency than he had intended to use, "for it still is my estate after all, is it not, Cullen?" he remarked, but his repose was just an act. What was Cullen doing there? So soon after, well, after the whole poisoning affair. He looked indeed as though he knew everything about it and Samael was quite sure he looked positively guilty of whatever Cullen blamed him for.

"Don't goad me, Hawke…!" Cullen closed the gap between them, so his breastplate brushed against the silk dressing gown Hawke was wearing with Amell crest embroidered across the back. "I know, Hawke! You must know that I know that—" Cullen started frantically spluttering accusations until he realized he was making no sense whatsoever. He took a deep breath and also a cautious step backward from the Champion whose face was once more impenetrable; his fiery eyes like windows with closed shutters. "Meredith—" Cullen started explaining again, but his voice cracked right at the beginning. "Meredith got sick shortly after you took your leave, Champion. Pretty convenient, right? Good timing, I daresay, right? Right?! As we stand here, I want you to hereby swear on your father's life you have nothing to do with this sudden unfortunate development." By the time Cullen was done with his ardent speech, he was uncontrollably trembling in something he had not felt ever before; helplessness of an inevitable failure. His failure to protect the one he was sworn to protect with his own life and death.

"Don't you _dare_ speak my father's name with your self-righteous pretty mouth, Cullen!" Samael all but growled the Templar silent. "Not here, not now, definitely not while you know why he was taken from me the day I realized I've yet got any family left in this world."

Cullen shuddered when he was pinned down by the pair of widened amber eyes ablaze with ire which could be put out with Meredith's blood only. His fingers unknowingly clutching the sword as though it was the only thing that made sense at the moment, his lips slightly parted, not even blinking, Cullen hung on Samael's lips, to hear for himself what he already knew deep inside of him. It came to Hawke's mind like an epiphany. Cullen wanted him; begged him in fact, to lie. The poor young Templar could not admit to himself his Mistress was merely a history in Kirkwall and it was just matter of time until she was assassinated or at least imprisoned.

"Did you or did you not hurt her, Hawke!?" Cullen cried out an ultimate allegation.

"I most certainly did not," Hawke replied with serenity. Not a blink; not a single muscle moved within his body.

"Are you lying?" the Templar didn't seem mollified in the least by the answer.

"Yes, I am," Samael replied with the same nonchalant pose and tone.

"Damn you, Hawke!" Cullen threw the sword to the Champion's feet in frustration and gripped on his own head, raging around. "Are you serious?" he barked at the Champion once he halted in front of him yet again.

"Maybe," a disinterested shrug as if they were talking about whether Hawke fucked the milkman's daughter finished the mad Templar off indeed. "I would ask you to leave now, Captain," Hawke strictly gestured toward the front door, praying no one would pick up on how profoundly he disapproved with the game he had been playing with the pitiable Templar.  
>Setting his jaw into a crooked sneer, so odd on Cullen's otherwise handsome and solemn face, the Templar bent down for his sword and thrust it back into a scabbard without a single glance at the motionless landlord.<p>

"If anything happens to her—" Cullen hissed a hollow threat at the taciturn Champion. How could he leave just like that after what he had just heard? "If anything bad happens to her, Hawke, I'll… I'll…" Cullen threw his arms helplessly sideways as he failed to figure out the worst possible revenge.

"You can't possibly imagine the enormous immensity of the fuck I don't give here!" Samael rigorously pronounced each word until he ended up shouting right into Cullen's face, only to finish his final statement just as softly and quietly as he had started it. No; he really had no other answer for the Templar as far as Meredith was in question here.  
>Having no real response to Hawke's spiteful outburst, Cullen slowly turned around and walked away as if he was in a daze, followed by his men who were clearly transfixed by that drama just as he was.<p>

oOo

When Hawke woke up again, it was late afternoon. The poison had left no traces whatsoever on his body; moreover he felt exceptionally calm. Calm and well as he pleased. Maybe his days were finally numbered. Samael stretched and scratched his back on a bed pillar. Maybe the antidote failed; Samael yawned and glanced around the neat bedroom. Why were the curtains closed? And who cleaned up that unimaginable mess which his room had turned into just a few hours back?

Sauntering around the bedroom, touching this or that in a rather playful mood, Hawke reached the cabinet and merely out of power of iron habit he pulled out his usual liquid breakfast; one of Nevarran's finest brews. Usually Samael wouldn't care at all what he was drinking - from a lavish crystal flask of very old Antivan whiskey to some inferior bottle of swill made of rotten apples – as long as it served its purpose and soothed his mind warped by dreadful dreams he had been having lately. Fiddling with the massive cork, Samael started wondering what's happening behind the thick curtains which cast the bedroom into gloom isolation from the rest of the world.

The stubborn cork put up a fight, Hawke had to admit, but he did not bring himself to take a sip anyway once he drew the heavy curtains apart, grinning into autumn sun as it fully hit him with its weakening beams.

Samael felt good.

How disturbing.

Samael had no interest to investigate why it was so, though the answer was plain and simple. Merrill. A night spent with her set his mind at ease and Hawke completely blocked the fact there would be no Merrill for him two days from now. Just as her whisper into his ear would command him to turn around, Samael glanced behind his back and there it was; a single black crow feather which undoubtedly came from Merrill's robe and which was set on a bedside table on purpose. Toying with it in his hand, memories took over.  
>An awkward silence prevailed in Hawke estate after Cullen's departure, until Bodahn exceedingly loudly and rather hysterically wished good night and pushed the half-asleep Sandal into their humble quarters by the kitchen.<p>

"That was rather... interesting development," Samael dared point out when Merrill remained still; clearly waiting for any sign of what was expected from her now.

"I've never seen Cullen on such an edge as he was tonight," she replied merely to her scattered thoughts. "Hawke?" she asked in a small voice and made a hesitant step toward him.

"Hm?" he mirrored her and made a step towards her as well.

"Did it work?" she continued in their little game of circling around one another. "Did whatever you've done tonight work?"

"Yeah. I believe so," he breathed out and his face darkened, yet he made that single step forward to finally have her within his reach.

"So Meredith..." she looked up at him with an unfinished question.

"She's as good as dead," he spouted through the clenched teeth and his face twisted into vengeful grimace. "She just doesn't know it yet," he let his mind bathe in shimmering thoughts of vengeance for a while, not aware Merrill was studying his face as he did so.

"Good," she uttered a sound and Samael realized she sounded much less excited than he would have expected. This was not her fight after all and watching Hawke becoming entirely consumed by his desire for payback was heartbreaking for her. Waking up from his trance he looked down into her eyes, finally acknowledging her nearness, her ability to emerge whenever he needed her and disappear just as quickly. Lingering at the last thought, he realized in front of him indeed stood someone he was not willing to let ever go.

Merrill appeared to go through her own internal fight when she watched Hawke's confused face as strong emotions were mauling him around. As though reaching some ultimate unanimity, he swept her off feet, carrying her upstairs with confidence of his own. Judging by her tight embrace and frantic kisses she started pressing along his jawline, she was not opposing the idea either.

They fucked, they drank, they talked, then they fucked again. Everything had been said that night, yet one topic remained a taboo. Neither of them spared a thought nor word on their soon separation, though they both knew it had been hanging above their heads like a sword of destiny.

Now Hawke stood in the sunshine of a new day, clutching the black feather in his palms and his smile slowly vanished.

oOo

"You know, I'm not gonna pop off any time soon, Bodahn, so stop staring at me, god damn it!" Hawke gave his butler an annoyed glare when both Feddics tiptoed around him as they served something what could have been a very late lunch or a very early dinner.

"I wouldn't know since you appear to entertain yourself with risking your life on daily basis, my lord," Bodahn retorted with a sour face and slapped a ladle of steaming mush on Hawke's plate with such a vigor it splashed all around; Samael's flashy home apparel embroidered with golden sewing silk included. His eyes sparking in blatant rage, Hawke slowly examined his ruined clothing and just as slowly looked up at the petrified dwarf who started counting his last seconds being alive judging by the expression that settled on Samael's face.

"All right, let me begin my three-part apology by saying that you are a great warrior, more than tolerable employer and you've got," Bodahn seemed lacking the right words since Samael started snarling, "and you've got pretty hair," the dwarf rounded up his explanation with first thing that had occurred to him.

Wordless staring at each other for a while was replaced by boisterous laugh when Hawke threw the cutlery away and collapsed on the table; guffawing. Bodahn hesitantly joined his Master when he was completely sure Hawke wouldn't flay him for his impudence.

"Oh, come on, my grumpy thrall," Samael heartily brayed in laughter, licking the mush off his fingers. It was just as tasteful as it would have been eaten from his silver dish. "I don't think I've ever heard something _that_ nipping from you," he rubbed the eyelids since his eyes had started watering in joy.

"I humbly beg your pardon, Messere," Bodahn dropped his eyes and penitently folded his short arms behind the back, though his smile was broad and warm.

"No need, Bodahn," Samael waved the apology away. "Why don't you sit down with me and tell me how are your preparations for upcoming travels going?" he nodded toward the empty chair across the table and watched as Bodahn almost fearfully obeyed, still disconcerted by Hawke's prankster mood.

It was a very unusual afternoon indeed. Unusual, because it was so profoundly ordinary.

oOo

"Maker, I really shouldn't have come here," Samael moaned when ominous door to Meredith's office appeared in front of him. Striding straight into a lion's jaw – that was the major feeling he had when he returned to a place where he had murdered a person last night, though that person had yet to realize this little inconvenient fact. Why had Meredith summoned him anyway? So soon after… Did Cullen tell on him? Did he share his suspicions? Were there somewhere in that office pair of irons with his name on it, impatiently waiting for him? Was the hangman's noose tightening around his neck? Well, he was about to find out.

"Meredith…" Samael granted the Knight-Commander sitting behind her massive table a hurried obeisance, finding extremely difficult to look straight into her face afterwards.

"Ah, Champion, please do be seated," she waved him to skip the pleasantries, barely looking at him as she was raking through a pile of vellums.

That second of hesitation after such simple, if indirect command, left Meredith wondering about Hawke's restlessness.

_Sit. Sit, you idiot._

Following his inner voice which was unfathomably alike to Malcolm's voice, Samael forced himself to sit down into his usual nonchalant pose.

"I imagine you are aware why I have sent for you today," she heaped the parchments into a neat pile and steepled her long pale fingers above them.

_Reply. Come on, say something witty._

"I, er, you've had not enough last night?" Hawke leaned forward and cocked his head. If Samael's nervous entrée had aroused any suspicion in Meredith, it was smothered right here, after this teasing line.

"You oaf," she scolded him in pretended shock and confident smile settled on her face. Then her sneer slowly faded as her gaze dropped down to her pile of vellums again. "I expect your attendance and full support at tomorrow's execution of Ser Alrik," she stated and only a well-trained eye could have caught that boundless pain in her voice caused by an alleged traitor. "I mean Otto Alrik, since he has been stripped of his Knighthood and all his possessions an hour ago after evaluation of the evidence of his revolting betrayal."

"An execution—" Samael faltered.

"Yes, execution, Champion, keep up for Maker's sake," she glared at him, noticing his trembling hands which he had clasped together all too late. "There is no other response to a Templar who trades with lyrium, steals from the Order's vault, terrorizes the mages and abuses the Tranquil."

"Are you alleging he has done all that?" Hawke successfully mimicked a shocked face of his own. Of course he knew about all this. After all, he was the one who concocted the scheme and forged the evidence for majority of those heinous crimes Alrik had allegedly committed. The worst part? It wasn't that hard since a solid half of it was true.

"The execution is scheduled for midday. The Chantry priests claim a full eclipse will come to pass right then. I consider it fitting," she spat out as though just thinking about Alrik was a living insult for her.

"The Guards-Captain's wedding is to take place tomorrow afternoon," Hawke cautiously reminded her.

"And? You can attend when the execution is done," Meredith scoffed and folded her arms on chest. Her dismissive pose told Samael what was her attitude toward Aveline and her new husband-to-be.

"Actually, I hoped you would consider partaking in the reception which I'm hosting at my estate afterwards for the newly married."

"Bah," she blew a raspberry; a gesture full of disdain Hawke had never seen her performing before. "Keep your hoi polloi party for yourself, Hawke," she straightened up in all her arrogance.

"Hoi polloi?" Samael gave her a surprised look; genuine this time. "All the nobles are attending as well as several Knights from Orlais who were apparently friends of Aveline Vallen's father. The Grand Cleric herself will attend."

"All right, whatever," Meredith shrugged, but Samael was able to tell she was just teasing him and she was quite eager to come and parade her little Viscount puppet throughout the night before the coronation itself.

"I shall expect you then," Hawke bowed his head with this backhanded remark; thinking this audience was over as he abruptly stood up, all too impatient to get out of there.

"Not so quickly, Champion," Meredith mirrored him and strolled over to him.

_Breathe. Calm down. Breathe. That's it._

Hawke kept telling himself when Meredith decided to stand behind him, clasping his shoulder with one hand while the other one started twirling with his long hair strand.

"You are Alrik's last wish," she whispered into his ear and she indeed sounded positively suspicious now.

"I'm… what?" Hawke all but gave a gasp.

"You've heard me, Champion," she dryly stated and her grasp on the hair strand tightened. "Now I wonder why of all possible outcomes of this last wish charade he would choose _you_, Champion. _You,_ who was nothing but in constant quarrel with him. _You,_ who was conveniently right here when Alrik was put under anathema and arrest."

_Careful, my son. Careful with what you're going to say here._

Samael jerked but it was not because of Meredith. It was as though his father was right there with them in that wretched Gallows office. The silence was tangible. The evil standing right behind him, enveloping him, feeding on his insecurity, was concrete.

"I hated him," Samael burst out. "I hated him for what he did at the Bone Pit lakes to me. To my father. To my mabari." Hawke whirled around and didn't think straight anymore as he pushed Meredith backwards until she hit the wall with her back. "I won't conceal I wanted him dead as a doornail," he continued elaborating as his eyes ensnared Meredith's into a trap.

"I…" Meredith could all but breath out. No one had ever dared treat her like this. No one had ever dared talk to her like this. What a passion, hatred and power was reflected in Hawke's pose, voice and gestures! It was sublime in Meredith's eyes. And this mighty creature was bound to her will! Not to that ridiculous Dalish woman. Not to that simpleton of an elven slave! To her and to her only! At least that was what Meredith believed in in her pride.

"Yes! Yes, you!" Hawke's eyes widened as he started nodding with a mad man's vigor. "You forbade me from harming him, remember?" he violently shook her, sticking an accusatory finger right between her eyes. "Don't you think I would have sunk a blade into his heart the moment I first saw him after I licked my wounds from the lakes? Don't you?" he shook her once again when no response whatsoever came from the stunned Knight-Commander.

A fierce kiss silenced the hysteric outburst Hawke just had performed and it terrified him indeed how good of an actor he had become over last few months.

"Do you want me to go to Alrik right away?" he asked her when she was done with him; as meek as a lamb, though his blood was boiling in repugnance.

"Yes. Go," she dismissed him, looking pleased with herself and her obedient slave.

"Your wish is my command," Samael bowed and bolted out of the office.

_No_, he rubbed his temples, feeling the splitting headache pulsing within his head. This nightmare was obviously not over; not by a long shot.

oOo

Hawke almost forgot how somber the Gallows labyrinths were, but the tall windowless walls with moisture dribbling down them as though the stone itself was weeping for the souls trapped within them, reminded him perfectly.

Whirling dust and filth devouring the sounds of his steps as well as his Templar escort was soiling his obligate black cloak and high boots up to his knee level, tickling in his throat, choking the words and human hearts.

"Why are the cells empty in this wing?" Samael glanced at a tall taciturn Templar over his shoulder.

"The Knight-Commander Meredith ordered to keep the prisoner in isolation, Champion," the Templar replied and to no avail Hawke tried to guess how the Templars felt about Ser Alrik's fall for they wore their usual polished helmets.

"This way, Champion," a Templar woman almost reprimanded them since they dared delay a few steps behind the ones who were leading them through the labyrinth with languishing torches in their hands.

"My, my, my…" a reedy nasal voice accompanied each word with an ironic clap, "the Champion and Viscount himself. Needing to be chaperoned by the Templar squadron all the time, are we? How does that work out for you, hm?"

"Silence, traitor!" the woman fiercely silenced the jeerer as she banged the torch against the bars.

"Uhm, I bet you would rather keep me silent, wouldn't you, oh yes indeed," Alrik impassively rubbed the fresh burn on his hand and sneered right into Hawke's face.

"Leave us," Samael uttered a quiet command without looking anywhere but Alrik's pale face. "Clear off! All of you!" he yelled them away when they reluctantly moved toward the door.

"Oh, how they obey you," Alrik comfortably leaned against the wall, "like puppies their bitch. But who commands the bitch, I wonder?" he tittered at his own words. "Oh, right, even a greater bitch! The queen of bitches herself!" now he cackled a long hysteric laughter and Hawke only gulped in sight of a man who was utterly broken and who was about to lose tomorrow the only thing he had left; his miserable life. But feeling his left hand cramping; his left hand crippled by this human waste, Samael more than knew he was going to enjoy watching the show right to the end.

"Having no love for your former Mistress, are we…?" Hawke decided to play Alrik's game as he started sauntering forth and back along the bars. Why had Alrik summoned him here in the first place remained to be seen, since Samael could already tell the fallen Templar wanted his black clad figure out of there as soon as possible for he anticipated Hawke had come here to feast his eyes on the beaten enemy and check if his irons were tightly clapped and his pride properly dragged in mud.

"Why are you here? I was merely joking when I attempted to see my real executioner before they murder me tomorrow," Alrik barked at him a first straight question, deliberately avoiding a discussion concerning Meredith. "All right, let me guess then," he shrugged when the Champion remained still, "you came to mock me? Or perhaps to make sure I'm properly starved, dressed in rags, regretting that I've ever dared cross the path of such an infamous bastard such as yourself?"

"I—" Samael attempted to explain himself.

"No, no, I know!" Alrik clapped in frantic joy. "You decided to snuff me right away! Why wait for a boring public ignominy followed by even more boring execution, right?"

Hawke all but stared in disbelief at a man who did not hesitate to throw around jokes even now. It must've been a mask, right? Just a defense mechanism Alrik was using to not to go completely insane of what he was facing and why. It was just a matter of carefully chosen words to tear that mask down and bare that sickening amorphous shadow of what was left of Alrik's destroyed spirit. It was time to show the ex-Templar, that Samael knew all too well how to comb the nits such was Alrik out of his hair.

"I won't deny I've dreamt many nights about thrusting my blades into all your major organs in alphabetical order," Hawke abruptly closed in on the bars, sliding his fingers up and down in rapture, "but now I think I'll go with that boring public ignominy and execution, Alrik. Am I disappointing you with my tragic lack of creativity?" The former Templar shrank back the moment he had glimpsed Samael's face warped into a mask of an implacable avenger in the flickering light of torches. "I hate to be so obvious, you see, but Meredith's decisions must be obeyed completely and unquestioningly. You of all people should know that. So – death by hanging it is then," Hawke purred through the bars and bounced off of them in disgust.

"Stop it," Alrik merely whispered away the horrors that were awaiting him.

"How many times have your victims pleaded with you to stop, hm, Alrik?" Hawke punched the bars, trying to make out Alrik's silhouette since the coward hid himself in the darkest corner. "Come here and look me in the eye, when I'm talking to you!" he all but shouted out in frustration when Alrik seemed to be done speaking with him. Only an incoherent quiet babbling was an answer to Hawke's screams though. "I bet you're grateful for the bars between us right now, aren't you," Hawke tilted his head backward and let out a guttural mirthless laughter. "Aren't you!?"

"What are you doing?" Alrik's panicked voice inquired when Hawke suddenly fell silent.

"For me, there are neither locks nor bolts," the husky voice slowly recited and the massive lock clattered, "for whatever I desire is mine," Hawke's tall figure shrouded in shadows emerged right in front of the appalled prisoner.

"Maker will let you burn in hell for this, Hawke! He knows you framed me! All will know you framed me!" Alrik started reeling backwards from the slowly approaching assassin. "He knows about everything you've ever done and He will judge you eventually! He knows human hearts, their weakness, their wretchedness, their—"

"The Maker…!" Hawke dryly guffawed. "The Maker will never tell you about humans as much as _pain_, Alrik! And I see you are in great amount of pain right now," he finally had the whimpering prisoner pinned in a corner. "Good. I'm leaving then," Samael licked his finger and made a mark across Alrik's sweaty forehead.

"This is not over, Hawke!" Alrik seemed to find his voice once Samael put the lock back on its place. "I'll tell everyone tomorrow! Just wait and see and enjoy! I wouldn't be surprised if they erect your own gibbet right next to mine!"

"Oh, how you're mistaken, Alrik," Samael jiggled the lock to make sure it was properly securing the bars. "It's over. It was over the moment you laid your hands on me and my father at the banks of Bone Pit lakes. It was over the moment you put a sword through my mabari and thus deprived me of a faithful companion and a friend."

"But… But—" Alrik faltered; overwhelmed by the weight of guilt that crushed him as well as by the nearness of his inevitable death. This was the way of all cowards. They were all nothing but miserable and pitiable piles of shit in the end, but usually there was no one who would actually pity them; only themselves.

"I could pretend this is vengeance for all those lives you've ever taken from innocent people. For all those Tranquil who are wandering around the Gallows. For your secret executions, abuse and rape you've been covering up for your men who are just as damaged as are you, Alrik. But I shall pretend no more, Alrik. The truth is," Samael threw his arms sideways and chuckled, "I don't give a single fuck about them. This is a sheer revenge not from the Champion, not from the Viscount, not even from Hawke. It is from a weak man you've beat down, mocked and crippled. The same weak man is going to watch you die tomorrow!"

With those words Samael lazily slipped off his left glove and raised the bare hand in front of his eyes. Even in the flickering warm light of torch the skin on his mutilated hand was waxen; color of lustrous grey, and interlaced with thick prominent veins.

"I lost my hand, Alrik." Samael thrust the glove back on what was left of his hand on his way out. "You lost your life," he opened the heavy door and bowed his head as if in deep contemplation. "You judge who of the two of us got the better end of the deal."

"Hawke! Come back! Haaawke!" Out of his mind, Alrik started rattling the bars which was quite an orchestra along with his rattling teeth and bones.

"Look for me tomorrow in the raving crowds, Alrik," Samael spared one last look at the raging prisoner. "I'll be the one laughing," he whispered and banged the door shut behind his back.

Long remained Alrik motionless, musing about his life, replaying again and again the vivid images of his near execution Hawke had masterfully planted in his head. They were the last sane thoughts he had ever conceived.


	17. Chapter 17

The Chantry garden had been once a place of peace and silence; bright and airy, where tall patulous holly oaks spread dappled shadows across vast flowerbeds, birds sang from above, and the air was vibrant with the scent of roses. Not anymore, apparently. Where Hawke stood, it was a dark, primal place where gnarled trees awaited first snow, untouched by the sun as the gloomy Chantry walls loomed right over them.

Strolling around lost deep in thoughts, Samael ran his hand up the coarse tree bark, leaning his feverish forehead against it afterward. It smelled of moist earth and decay. He reveled in a long deep breath, thinking he would be far away from Kirkwall two days from now. Was it a good or bad feeling? Right now, Hawke himself wasn't sure. He could be sure of but two things though; Merrill was not going with him and he really couldn't stand Kirkwall anymore. The tall and deceitfully pristine walls of Hightown, dark corners of Lowtown with whores plying their trade in narrow filthy alleys, the omnipresent massive black chains hanging above the billowing waters, parting him from the sleepless Gallows and reminding him that he was nothing but a slave to this city like everyone else.

After his confrontation with Alrik, Hawke sought nothing but peace and quiet, but the truth was the only one who could smother the flames of doubt and fear within him dwelled on the Sundermount; packing at the moment.

"And there I saw the Black City, its towers forever stain'd, its gates forever shut. Heaven has been filled with silence and I knew then, and cross'd my heart with shame," a serene voice entered the deafening silence, yet Hawke didn't bother turning around. Sebastian Vael was not surprised he had found the Champion at the darkest garden corner, where the thick tree trunks crowded close together while lean branches wove a dense canopy overhead and twisted roots wrestled beneath the soil.

"Thank you for coming, prince." Samael slowly circled around a tree he had been leaning on, only to lean on it again afterward; only facing Vael this time. "How are we doing?" Hawke lowered his already husky voice into a mere whisper which might have been easily mistaken for moans of the trees stirring in chilling autumn breeze.

"Actually," Sebastian took his time while rubbing his finely chiseled chin, "very well, I daresay," he sauntered forward and it didn't escape Samael's attention that the prince wore fine attire with his family's sigil on his heart; not a Chantry robe.

"So the nobles of Kirkwall…" Hawke intentionally left his question incomplete, waiting in suspense for Sebastian to finish it for him.

"…are indeed ready and eager to acknowledge your claim to the Viscount's throne. Yes." Sebastian bowed to the Champion, but his light smile faded soon. "As long as we have our agreement," he shot an inquiring glance at Hawke's expressionless face. "It stands and falls with your word, Hawke," he continued; now clearly nervous about lack of response.

"You'll have your army of my Templars to retake Starkhaven, Sebastian, once the Vistcount's crown falls into my hands. For that, I require an ultimate support of all nobles to beat Meredith's voice. That was and still is our agreement, isn't it?" A sneer of irony settled on Samael's lips as he approached the prince who noticed the Champion didn't look so well. Not well at all.

"Beat Meredith…" Sebastian repeated for himself; clearly perplexed. "Correct me if I am mistaken, Hawke, but isn't she the one who is pushing you into the Viscount's throne in the first place?"

"Not for much longer," Samael retorted aggressively. "Not after tomorrow anyway," he sniggered at his words and Sebastian shuddered and the tone in Hawke's voice told him to abandon this topic. "So?" Samael woke up from his plots of vengeance. "Do I have full support from the nobles or not?"

"Well, I won't conceal there have been some struggles—" Sebastian fell silent and coughed in uneasiness, "—but it's been dealt with and Kirkwall nobility stands behind you."

"Some struggles you say…" Samael remarked while observing Vael's face closely enough to read nuances behind his diplomatic words. "What struggles?"

"Let's say not everyone was thrilled with the thought of having an Amell Viscount ruling the city. Moreover when his blood is mixed with some Fereldan's apostate and Maker knows what else." Vael regretted his harsh and of course utterly true words right away as he let them out, being painfully familiar with Hawke's temper, but the Champion's face remained more or less impassive.

_If only he knew… Samael thought to himself. If only Sebastian knew I intend to disappear the moment the Viscount's crown descends on my head. If only he knew that I absolutely couldn't care less about his precious Starkhaven. If only he knew I plan on leaving this cursed city once and for all and all its petty affairs along with it… If only he knew…_

"Do we understand each other then?" Samael shrugged off those disturbing thoughts and reminded himself he had a role to play here and that role better be convincing if his plan was to succeed.

"Yes, we do indeed." Sebastian granted a subtle bow to the man who was going to help him reclaim his parents' land. Or at least he thought so.

"You've changed, you know that?" Samael couldn't resist commenting on shift in Vael's approach to his dilemma whether to remain at the Chantry or return to Starkhaven as its rightful ruler. "Just a matter of sheer curiosity – what exactly you've done to those who opposed me?"

"I did only what was necessary," Sebastian's aristocratic face hardened as he reminded himself he simply did whatever it took to take up his legitimate place in this world.

"Whatever makes you sleep better," Samael dismissed this matter with an arrogant scoff for he was able to understand that unsaid part of Sebastian's words: violence, intimidation, extortion and other just as delightful ways of the artistry of persuasion.

"I would take my leave, now, when we see eye to eye, _prince_." Hawke pushed himself off the tree trunk, unsuccessfully hiding the mockery in his words. Sebastian looked as if he regretted this shadowy alliance with the Champion of Kirkwall already, but unfortunately for the prince the Champion had, or at least would have soon, the armies of Templars at his command, a few dozens of loyal Circle mages who were an irreplaceable support during wars and the City Guards-Captain in his pocket as a bonus. That alone made Samael Hawke the only worthy ally in Kirkwall for the prodigal prince of Starkhaven.

With this thought Sebastian sealed the deal with a brief nod of agreement and Hawke was yet again one step closer to his absolution.

oOo

The Chantry bells chimed two hours before midnight when Samael strode back to his estate, not entirely sure whether a frenzied ride to Sundermount was in order right now. Or at least the black ring burning and strangling his finger suggested this cause of action rather than a placid stroll around Hightown. But Merrill had made her choice. Well, she kept repeating she desired to stay with Hawke, but how strong exactly this desire was if that blighted clan of elves was more important than him? Always something between them….

Samael sighed and put a hand on the katana handle which was stuck in an adorned scabbard tonight. Hawke wore no armor and he almost laughed that not so long ago he, in his fancy clothing and with a fancy weapon which looked like it had never seen a battle, would have been an easy mark in Hightown at night. But his tattooed face, his long black hair waving in night chills, his weapon; all of it had become legendary if not straight infamous throughout the Free Marches, so no one dared steal a glance at him, moreover openly stand in his way. What some would call a blessing, Samael Hawke called a curse.

"A note for you, my lord," a scrawny urchin, too tall to his age, interrupted Samael's musing when he reached out to him from shadows, bowing his head in submission and waiting until Samael would take the scroll from him.

"Uhm, thank you," Samael mumbled a reply, and his hand automatically reached for a silver coin to reward the messenger, but then he realized there was no one in sight to give it to. "Charming," he murmured for himself and a warning bell rang twice in his head as he glanced around before he broke the seal to unfold the scroll.

_In service of the Free Marches and the Crown of Kirkwal itself, I suggest heading into the crypts of Chantry immediately. The Champion of Kirkwall would surely find the meeting which is held there at this very moment reasonably interesting, if not straight viable to his intentions and plans._

_A friend_

"A friend, huh… One would wonder how many friends I suddenly have." Samael scowled at a neat handwriting, but the more he fought to go straight home, the more he knew he simply had to follow the note's instructions. The sane assumption was that this could be a trap. Well, Hawke should anticipate in the first place that this was indeed a trap. Maybe some final attempt for his life, so Kirkwall wouldn't have to witness his half-noble head being crowned with the Viscount's crown and his blasphemous ass sitting on the Viscount's throne. As Samael approached the front door of his estate, it became obvious that it was near impossible to walk in through them and burn the paper, so onward he went the shortest route to the Chantry, maybe with a perverted hope of some vicious fight ahead.

The crypts yawned at him with their bone-chilling musty air and Hawke did a poor job trying not to read the names on the catafalques all around him, reminding him the men were nothing but mortal worms who lived their short insignificant lives on earth for precisely counted number of days before they were put away, here, underground, to rot within these silent stone guardians of their remains with nothing but tombstones acknowledging their existence.

"We are born crying," Hawke echoed the fading words grazed into a granite plaque, "live complaining, and die disappointed. Huh, being a prophet, are we…?" he leaned down to take a closer look at some strange markings alongside the plaque, when his ears picked up distant voices; angry voices, ardent voices, arguing about something indecipherable.

"… and I would have it no other way, Fenris! Do not misinterpret my words here! We are going to teach our vain Champion a little of humility, all right? Nothing more. Nothing less. I suspect you of all people should know how quickly he forgets his friends and heap his allies up like piles of worthless junk. Only to dig them up when it's convenient again!" Anders let himself carried away with that rage he had been withholding every time Hawke's name came up.

"You talk too much, _mage_." Fenris' voice was now positively narked with Anders' persuasive technique. "Just get this done as we agreed, take down that Dalish blood mage and you shall have my support. But I have to warn you – anything beyond our agreement and you're on your own. Anything bad happens to Hawke and I shall have your heart in my hand and I shall look into your eyes the moment I squeeze." Only a fool would take that threat lightly, but Anders marked himself a fool the moment he decided to merge his otherwise intact soul with a creature of Fade. A creature which was not ever meant to walk among the living.

_Blood mage… Dalish… Was it even possible that Fenris forgot already how it ended last time he had attempted for Merrill's life? Didn't I warn him with a deadly threat in my eyes? Yes, I did. And did he listen to me? No. Apparently he did not. Apparently my words were just a joke. A fucking… Hilarious… Joke._

"All right, you've got yourself a deal," Anders retorted, but the undertone of what supposed to be a guarantee of their mutual understanding was convincing no one; Hawke the least.

"I'll hold you to your promise, abomination. Mark my words." With this grave vow Fenris made his way out of the crypts and Samael managed to slip behind the plaque he had been studying moments ago just in time and only wafer-thin swirls of dust in the air told him the lanky elf had passed by him and Hawke indeed remained unnoticed.

"Good, the slave's gone," a quiet cantankerous voice uttered in satisfaction and hushed sniggering was the only reply.

"He's a valuable ally, Ella," Anders tried to set it into a perspective and to Hawke's surprise his loving words were meant to no other than the mage serpent he had encountered on the Wounded Coast and handed over to Templars once already. "And he knows precisely as much as he needs to play his role."

"Why is he even doing this?"Maurella's voice asked into silence with stubbornness of her own.

"Hmpf, jealousy is a powerful motivator, Ella. You've heard the elf. We have to make sure he is present at the coronation as well, or he'll hunt us down just as ferociously as it sounded. Where are our little motley group anyway?"

"As usual," Maurella purred, entertained by her own thoughts. "The cemetery," she added when Anders obviously waited for an answer. "They were ordered to move here tomorrow right before dawn, because I don't think they could sleep here; not in this number, that is." A brief chuckle coming from Anders jabbed into Hawke's ears and he slowly covered them with his gloved palms as if this was just as much as a man could bear. He was sure they would discuss other important schemes they had so carefully laid out, but Samael simply ceased listening.

Traitors!

Ingrates!

Bastards!

Dark voices were humming in his head as he tried to absorb what he had just witnessed. If Fenris fell so easily prey to this plot, who else from his inner circle of what he considered friends sought to destroy him as well? Who else was sharpening the blade tonight with Samael's name on it?

"The drakestone has been successfully added and the explosives are ready to discharge and… heat up… the Viscount coronation a little bit," Anders chortled at his own joke and once again Hawke pricked up his ears. Did he hear correctly? Explosives? Here? In the Chantry? During the coronation?

"Once Hawke, the nobles, Grand Cleric, Guards-Captain and her second-in-command, Meredith along with her most trusted Templars are gone, we shall make our announcement about new Kirkwall future ahead; new future of mutual cooperation and understanding," Maurella elaborated and judging by the sounds Hawke's ears caught afterward, the two conspirators were either slurping a very hot soup while dancing tango, or they started engaging in some rather intimate activities.

Tsk… Samael snorted almost all too loudly. As if any mage with a brain couldn't come up with nothing but "Let's rebel!" thought which is apparently the only thing they can conceive.

"What about Tethras?" Ella's voice inquired precisely at the moment Hawke started considering to jump them while they were off guard and slice their throats and get that over with at once.

"Varric Tethras?" Anders sounded as though he had his mouth full of something. "I believe he's been approached with an offer to cooperate in the Hanged Man, but unfortunately our white horse was told to, and I quote here, piss off and fuck himself in the Orlesian woods with the friggin' cheese-knife." The slobbering sounds quietened and Anders was clearly upset now.

_That's my loyal silver-tongued half-tall friend…!_ A toothy smile appeared on Samael's pale face; so brief, so frightening that it would make the conspirators to throw themselves to Hawke's feet and beg for quick death.

"Unfortunate, but Tethras has sealed his own fate with this refusal as he will be no doubt present at the Chantry during the coronation," a quiet, sinister voice summarized the situation and Samael was unable to believe it was really Maurella talking. Was she the brain of this whole ridiculous mage underground? Maybe it was not that ridiculous after all. Maybe Samael and the whole city should have paid much more attention to mages. "I imagine Aveline Vallen is out of the question as well," she remarked, unimpressed, and at once she climbed on top of Hawke's to-kill-list.

"She's out indeed, as she is known as notorious ally of the Champion," Anders pointed out the obvious, "but what about Merrill, I wonder…? She is no longer loyal to him. She's abandoned him for her clan and her own people," he voiced his thoughts and it sounded as if nothing could please him more.

"She was his lover, sweet thing," Ella muttered a reply. "Do not underestimate the power of their bond for I believe it's above our understanding," she sounded almost sentimental now. Old Hawke would have burst on the scene already, slaughtering both of them, but new Hawke resolved to listen and make the best of the knowledge of what's been going on in the Undercity and that his very life and the life of all his friends and allies was in unimaginable danger.

"She shouldn't serve as his shield for much longer though," Anders tried to take it the other way around. "I believe she's leaving Sundermount even before the coronation and Hawke will be once again one ally shorter after that." Laughter rang all around Hawke and he covered his ears in despair. Was it too late then? The coronation was in two days! Could he win this battle still? Did he even want to?

No one had ever put faith in Samael except of Samael himself and he learnt this the hard way years ago, lost in dark gorges and believing he left his father for dead. He promised to himself that day, that he would never ever be that little scared child again.

Definitely not today. Not in this fucking crypt. Not when everything Samael held sacred was about to be destroyed, his plans to return to Fereldan marred, the people he liked or even loved, slain in an explosion of some insane mage.

He would become the Viscount of Kirkwall as planned. He would flee for Fereldan the moment the Viscount's crown was securely in his hands. He would build new life from the ruins of the old one in Fereldan. A concept he was painfully familiar with. With money he deserved. Incognito. Fawn would magically appear tomorrow along with his father he retrieved from whatever hellhole Meredith had stashed him in. Merrill and the People would leave Sundermount without an incident and she would be safe at some new place she chooses. All Samael's friends would be safe and well-taken care of, while his foes would be dead. That was how it was going to be. That was the path Samael had to tread down right now. Not the path of defeat. Failure. And death.

Samael had descended into the depths of Chantry tombs with doubt and fear in his heart; he resurfaced illuminated with horrible truth. As sad as it was, Hawke could rely now on no one but Aveline, Varric and his Kossith warriors. With his father gone, Fawn Maker knew where, Isabela humiliated and gone, Samael was at a sad place of loneliness and sobriety.

Yes, he had his little army of lyrium smugglers, petty thieves, marauders and other minions, but who they were really loyal to? To whomever paid them the most; of course. Merrill was leaving shortly and she was already out of his reach, yet she was still on Samael's mind above all else. Fenris' betrayal was not a surprise for Hawke had anticipated something like this coming and Anders had been opposing Hawke and his deeds for a long time now.

With this somber aftermath, Hawke knew what he had to do, though he had no idea how he would do it.

oOo

"What are you doing here?!" was Hawke's first question when he entered the Black Emporium and found there no one else but Merrill engaged in a polite conversation with Xenon.

"What do you mean, Samael?" she turned at the sound of his voice, a warm smile on her lips already, but her eyebrows knitted in confusion the moment she had glimpsed Hawke's suspicious face. "You called me here," she cautiously reminded him since he remained in defensive stance.

"Did I…" he muttered under his nose, contemplating her unexpected presence at the moment he needed her most, even when he wouldn't have ever said it aloud.

"If this pretense, like you haven't summoned her, is genuine, then I deeply admire your cover." Xenon should just as Hawke learn when to shut his mouth up.

"Yeah, I'd very much like to _cover you_ six feet deep, believe me, Xenon," Samael retorted without a glance at the Black Emporium proprietor for his eyes were entirely focused at Merrill's queasy face.

"But you look absolutely horrid, my dear lad," Xenon omitted the rude remark and cried out in pretended shock when the candles flickering all around shed some light on Samael's gaunt face. "Something's bothering you, Champion?" a knowing or more like cunning smile settled on his face.

"You would know all about it, I suspect," Samael droned a reply while he was still staring at Merrill as if she was nothing but a figment of his warped mind.

"After all, the flesh reflects the madness within," Xenon slowly pronounced and let the silence spoke for itself. "You are here for the staff then?" his eyes kept leering in lazy turns at both lovers who seemed content with silent eyeballing one another.

"What staff?"

"A staff?"

They both woke up at the same time at Xenon's words, but the answer was needless as they both saw it right in front of them: the very same staff Hawke had presented Merrill with, as beautiful and powerful as ever.

"Take it. It's yours," Hawke made a dismissive gesture with his hand when Merrill's excited face turned to him in eager anticipation. He must have all but forgotten that he ordered Hein to deliver the broken staff to the Emporium. He was sure back then that he would not want to be anywhere near Xenon the moment he realized his masterpiece had been possibly irreparably damaged.

"Samael… What's happening…" Merrill jumped up in alarm once Hawke practically collapsed along the wall, closing the eyes as denial of what'd he witnessed tonight. Once again, the staff fell against the cold stone, forgotten, and Xenon almost coughed up what was left of his lungs as he protested against such disrespectful treatment. "Talk to me, ma vhenan," she whispered rushed endearments into his ear as she gathered his slumped body to her arms. For a moment, Merrill couldn't decide what was worse; if his attempt for a carefree smile which utterly failed or that haunted glow within his eyes turning up to her for help or at least merciful lie.

"It appears I need your help, Merrill," he pronounced with that last shred of resolve he had left. "In fact, I need help from both of you," Samael slowly freed himself from Merrill's embrace and scrambled up to his feet again.

"Anything," Merrill nodded in nothing but, just as Anders disdainfully described, devoted agreement.

"This better be good, lad," Xenon grumbled and ordered the urchin to lock up the Emporium. "But first I'd like to introduce you to somebody," he almost ceremonially announced and Hawke's eyes indeed widened as the newcomer walked through the side door. Samael had no doubt about who he was; Fenris had described him a thousand times over.

"Champion of Kirkwall. Your reputation precludes you," the newcomer stated with a mellifluous voice and bowed his head only as deep as his eyes piercing Hawke through and through allowed him.

"Oh, but the pleasure's all mine," Hawke mimicked a sardonic bow without taking his eyes off the stranger. "How do you like my city, Danarius?"


	18. Chapter 18

"How do I like _your_ city?" Danarius repeated quietly Champion's question and his velvet voice vibrated with amusement, though the eyes grey and bottomless as the sea at storm remained serious. "Being perhaps un peu presumptuous, are we?" he added a nonchalant remark. "Not that I intend to raise any objections to your claims to the Viscount's crown, oh no. That would be rather shortsighted, if not straight foolish of me, wouldn't it, if we consider how poorly your enemies usually fare."

Samael managed to withstand that sarcastic speech in a grace and silence which might have impressed the crowds, swayed the opinions of kings, but they repelled off from Hawke's impenetrable façade for he was able to pierce that smooth mask Danarius wore on his face for decades.

"Not much of a rhetorician, I see, Champion. You are a man of deeds rather than words." That superior undertone started losing its edge when Samael appreciated Magister's words with nothing but long hard stare. "Maybe you would like to learn the merit of my unexpected visit…?" Danarius spread his arms sideways and this innocent gesture alone made Merrill to retrieve the staff and assume a defensive stance by Hawke's side, though the Champion himself remained motionless. "And this is your Elven mistress, if I'm not sorely mistaken. What a lovely creature…" Danarius remained impassive to the sparkling staff just inches far from his face as he gave Merrill a chivalrous bow; his arm gracefully sweeping the air. "Enchanté, my dear. Or even better - Andaran atish'an, Keeper." After Danarius' charming entrée the silence lengthened until Samael decide he would torment the Magister no longer since his face was gaining all shades of pale as he waited for any sign of response.

"I think we needn't bother pretending as if we both don't know the reason of your kind visit," Hawke finally vocalized his thoughts and let Danarius know that whatever characteristic he had heard about the Champion of Kirkwall, fool he was not. The Magister confirmed his assent with subtle bow, though his imposing brows had drawn in together in a thoughtful frown for his carefully outlined plan was torn asunder right at the beginning. He had expected some Fereldan turnip, profligate lad interested in nothing but what mysteries dwelled between women's legs, a spoiled brat drunk on power far too large for him to wield. Definitely not this young taciturn man with fiery eyes who was aware of his power over the lives of others, but who had yet to realize his full potential. To this young man standing right in front of him, Danarius had nothing to offer in exchange for his help. Gold, power, slaves, estates – all those things would have caused nothing but insult if offered to the Champion.

"If we see eye to eye then, and I believe we do, would you mind taking our conversation to someplace more… pleasant for our intentions? Surely we could both nothing but benefit from our allegiance should the situation prove that we can help each other." Danarius' silver tongue was as much as persuasive, as it was forked and treacherous.

"My dear Magister," Samael's face eased off and his hand lazily caressed the staff's shaft, forcing Merrill to lower her weapon which she did rather reluctantly. Danarius, watching very closely that silent exchange of expressive glances between the lovers, almost rubbed his hands since he thought his mellifluous words aimed well, so it was up to Hawke to crush his confidence. "My dear Magister, I honestly don't give a flying fuck about what you want. All I know is that you've come to Kirkwall to find _something_ you had lost years ago and for some reason you think I know where _it_ is, or even that I'll be prone to help you to reclaim _it_."

During Hawke's bold speech Danarius' face hardened and Samael was able to see it took all his resolve not to pull his own staff out and brandish it around a little to make his point. Now he had the Magister precisely where he wanted him to be; insecure, hesitant and vulnerable. Merrill started fidgeting by his side and Samael slowly realized Danarius was not the only one held in check here as Merrill no doubt wondered why they hadn't cut the Magister down just as they would have yesterday or any other day. But not today. Not when Hawke explicitly heard from Fenris' very mouth just an hour ago, that his hate for Merrill was rooted so deeply he allied himself with Anders just to get rid of her. Of course, Fenris played a rather woeful role, not knowing the whole truth about Anders' plans, but that did not cleanse his betrayal nor did it justify his little vicious scheme behind Hawke's back.

"How many men have you brought along?" Hawke shot an unexpected question at the Magister who was unable to conceive any answer but the honest one.

"I have nearly forty bodies at my command."

"Mages?" Samael continued in his dismissive inquiry.

"Some of them. All of them seasoned and loyal. Interested?" Danarius baited and switched and just like that the superior undertone in his velvet voice was back.

"Perhaps," was Hawke's uninterested answer. "Meet me in an hour at the Kirkwall cemetery."

"Hawke…?" Merrill dared interfere and that single word contained it all; both consternation and fear over this unexpected overturn of events.

"I shall have an answer for you by then," Samael decided to ignore the silly elf who unwisely decided to question his judgment right in front of the Magister of Tevinter Imperium.

"Hawke…!" Merrill's hoarse voice strengthened as if the Champion hadn't heard her the first time. "Are you serious?! What about Fenris? What about—"

"I don't recall asking about your opinion, _Keeper_," Hawke turned his once again expressionless face toward the tiny elf, but the blatant menace emanating from his silhouette was eloquent.

"I will be there." Danarius slowly pronounced his reply as he observed the peculiar wordless exchange between the Champion and his Mistress. "It's been a pleasure, Champion," he granted the young man a rather humble bow. "My lady," he mimicked a gallant kiss on her hand before he walked away through the same door he had used to make an appearance. No one but Xenon caught that strange thrill which settled on a fleeting second on the Magister's face the moment his hand connected with Merrill's.

"Hmpf…" Xenon aptly evaluated the scene he had just witnessed.

"This encounter has never happened, old man. Do we understand each other?" Samael glared askance at the Black Emporium proprietor who for once stalled his witty comments and settled for a docile nod instead.

"You," Hawke reached for the pouty elf, "are coming with me," he declared. Merrill pried her hand off Hawke's tight grip twice, only to scuttle by his side the moment he shrugged and headed for the door alone.

"Ah, those young fools in love…" Xenon sighed as his dark eyes set deep in his wrinkled sockets followed the lovers as they hand-in-hand left the Emporium. "If they think this has a happy ending, they haven't been paying much attention."

oOo

"Where are we going again?" Merrill's attempt to sound casual and not spooked at all was in vain.

"First my estate where we both need to change, then Hanged Man where they pour alcohol down Donnic's unwilling throat as we speak since it's his bachelor party. I wouldn't be surprised if Aveline's present as well."

"Hum, wedding party. Aveline's wedding party…" Merrill's voice trailed off. "Hawke," she shyly plucked the sleeve of his attire, "I don't think she would be pleased to see me there, given our history."

"Once again I don't give a shit about what she'd like or dislike, Merrill," he tenderly brought her hand up to his warm lips. "At some point Varric must have mentioned that I'm paying for that comedy. My gold, my rules. And my anointed crowned ass wishes its Elven mistress to tag along," he referred back to Danarius' words, but Merrill chagrined at Hawke about such untimely jokes.

"An explanation of what exactly you need help with would be nice, Hawke." She apparently decided to pout and do this the hard way.

"I have no idea. You'll be the first to know, though," he purred into her pointy ear as he gallantly opened the door to the Hawke estate for her. Strange, how everything suddenly didn't seem as grim with Merrill by his side, even though it was only temporary. Entering the bedroom, Merrill glanced around in disquiet and winced when her eyes reached the neatly made bed; the very same bed where—

"I believe there are still some suitable… robes… in your old closet for this occasion." Samael vaguely waved his arm toward the massive wardrobe which was once Merrill's. From the profound silence, Samael knew he wasn't the only one tormented by memories of the time they had spent together until the day they were mercilessly torn apart.

As if only looking at Merrill; looking so vulnerable, so clueless about coming here so unexpectedly, was unbearable for Hawke, he rather turned his back at the elf and started hastily unbuttoning his plain ivory shirt with bulb sleeves after he had thrown away the light cloak; the color of dried blood. He was about to remove the belt and thumb off his breeches open with still no sound behind his back whatsoever which alone was unsettling, when a pair of cold hands slowly brushed his shoulders, circled the shoulder blades and descended to his waist where they snaked around his body into tight embrace as she gently rested her head against the tensed muscles of Hawke's back.

"Merrill…" he gave a hoarse whisper, or more of a groan as a reply to her touch. She felt his body started responding to her strokes and instead of an answer she slipped under his arm to face him, her hands tracing the soothingly familiar relief of his bare torso. "Merrill…!" Hawke slowly, almost against his will, trapped Merrill's hands fumbling for the thongs keeping the breeches at their place and brought them up on his chest, breathing just as heavily as she did.

"What…?" she breathed out and attacked his mouth instead as she blissfully left her hands where he had put them.

"As much as I'd love to ravish you right here, right now," he underlined his statement with a rapacious kiss, "I don't think this is the best time to think south of my belt," he glanced down and realized Merrill's clever fingers had managed to get rid of the belt already. "So to speak," he murmured and coughed in uneasiness.

Merrill processed what he'd said with unbelievable slowness and finally giggled, leaning her ruffled head against the warm skin again. "I give up," she sighed in pretended defeat and pressed a long kiss as high as she could have reached and she heard the deep rumble in Hawke's chest as he heartily laughed at them both, standing there half-naked, as awkward as the first night they tumbled into the bed together.

"Right, uhm, I think we should…" he nodded toward the closet and hoped she would start paying attention to her own attire rather than to his body.

"Yes, we should… Dress up and…" she cast her eyes down, her cheeks flushed, and stumbled over the carpet hem as she made her way to her wardrobe backward, still leering at Samael's body. "Got that explanation for me yet?" she asked in passing as they finished dressing-up and checked their appearances in the over-sized mirror on ugly talons which belonged to Hawke's mother once.

"Oh, I'm working on it, believe me," he replied and there was a dark element in Samael's voice; a presage of furor of what was about to happen. Merrill decided not to pry about why Hawke considered the strap of throwing knives across his chest necessary to wear to a party and she rather turned her attention to the nest of dark braided hair on her head. "You look…" Hawke's hungry eyes stripped the sky-blue gown of Merrill's fragile frame, "delightful," he finished his thought and his own words seemed like an understatement to Merrill's beauty when she stood in front of him with an insecure smile on her face. Once again Hawke had to slap himself mentally and reminded to both of them there was work to be done tonight.

oOo

The lovers were able to hear the Hanged Man much sooner than they actually saw that little alehouse, infamous for its poor quality of drinks as much as for public secret of being the favorite place of the Champion of Kirkwall for reasons which would remain unknown forever.

"Ready?" Hawke glanced down at his lovely companion shrouded into velvet midnight blue cloak which belonged once to an Amell lady which was evident from the family crest embroidered with thin silver lines on the back. The cloak might not have been new or even fancy, but it undeniably suited Merrill's pale face and fragile frame, as much as to her dark side Hawke knew only all too well.

"Samael, I…" she stammered and her eyes kept flickering between Hawke's face and the small holes in Hanged Man's wall which apparently served as windows. Bright light and boisterous laughter were streaming through them right now, inviting the by-passers inside, though the pair of Kossith bouncers with their arms folded on chest was in place to remind them that this was a private party indeed. "This just doesn't seem right. Remember when I ambushed Aveline when she had you locked away and you were dying of poison and no one has the slightest notion of how to help you? Or when I repeatedly perform blood magic right in front of her, despite the fact she threatened every time she would have the Templars hound me for the rest of my life? Or when—"

Though Samael seemed prone to listening to whatever ramble came out of Merrill's mouth that night, he simply leaned down and stole her next frantic words with a slow, calculated kiss. "That wasn't so hard, was it?" his husky whisper in her ear sent shivers throughout her body. "You know, you're much cuter when you're shutting up," he commented on her breathless silence as she tried to cope with what just had occurred. "Shall we?" he offered the elf his arm in a rather charming way and once again Merrill wondered who was the man in front of her who was known for nothing but his excessive drinking sprees and irascible manners.

"We shall." Merrill accepted the arm and clung to it as if it was her little personal beacon. As much as Hawke would appreciate especially tonight not to get recognized by every citizen of Kirkwall, once inside, the crowds and groups of people happily chattering to one another fell quiet one by one as the unusual couple made its way through them in silence.

"Lord Hawke," Corff seemed immune to that revered silence in his inn as he broadly grinned at the Champion and mimicked a mordant curtsey. Just like that Samael was able to shrug off that uneasiness he experienced every time the people spontaneously fell silent in his presence and intently watched his every move for he knew there was still one person who would see him just as he once was – too young rumbustious adventurer with unrestrained appetite for anything wearing a skirt and sometimes even not wearing a skirt, known for getting into all kinds of troubles and his ruthless way of how to overcome them.

"You're late," Varric pulled out his head out of a woman's cleavage and greeted the Champion with a morose observation.

"You're stunted," Hawke repaid him with the same coin and nodded his thanks to Corff who ceremonially handed him over a silver chalice of mead which surprisingly looked and smelled almost palatable.

"Making jokes about my height," Varric closed his eyes as if he was just deeply insulted, "very unique!" he rapped out at Hawke and trotted away, frantically muttering to himself.

"What crawled up his ass and died?" Hawke raised an eyebrow at Aveline who approached him and a disapproving frown formed on her face the moment she realized who it was fastened to Samael's arm, staring up at him in quiet devotion. "Something wrong?" he nonchalantly uttered the moment he became aware who deserved such stark glare from the Guards Captain who looked unexpectedly feminine tonight as she traded her usual uniform for a strait-laced periwinkle violet gown. Before the bride-to-be could have protested against having a known blood mage at her wedding shower, the tipsy groom swayed past her and threw himself at Hawke in genuine joy. Samael, his breath squeezed out of him as he suddenly had full hands of Donnic.

"My dear brave Messere Hawke! You came! Can you believe it!? I'm getting married to a beautiful woman who arm-wrestled me yesterday!" he hiccoughed and attempted to steady himself on the Champion who, even though he was tall and broad-shouldered man himself, was still a head shorter than the oversized Guardsman.

"You're a lucky man then," Samael slowly pronounced and his eyes flew to Aveline who, hearing such unexpected words from her friend's mouth, melted like an ice chip in Hanged Man's worst warm home-made swill. "Some will never found their soul mate even though they've searched for her their entire life," Hawke continued, but his words were no longer meant for Donnic as his eyes found Merrill standing apart from them, in the middle of crowds, yet so separate from them as ever. "And some finds her only to lose her again…" his hoarse voice trailed off as he looked at the one his words were meant for. Even the cheerful groom caught there was something deep and fatal happening at the moment as he reeled by his bride's side, wrapping his bear-like arm around her as if he intended to hold her until the moment he carried her to the altar and married the woman.

As Aveline and pretty much everyone around the Champion was used to witness similar turn of events every time Hawke appeared in public, this evening was no different. Hawke became a magnet and everyone without an exception was drawn to him and worshiped him and every each one of them at some point attempted to have him for themselves if only for a moment. The lone voices at the far side of the room started chanting one word which they accompanied with rhythmical clap of hands and soon the whole cramped inn vibrated in spontaneous roar of rapture.

"Speech, speech, speech, speech, speech, speech…!" the chanting went endlessly on and on until the citizens snatched their Champion and carried him on their shoulders to the little crescent podium where the regulars usually sang some drunken dirty ditty in early mornings soaked in alcohol and odors of cheap whores. Once standing on his own feet again, his eyes flew past the Kirkwallers crowing in delight to find the only one who deserved his attention tonight and Samael was glad when Merrill returned his light, almost imperceptible smile as she clapped along with the others and giggled when Varric pulled her down and whispered something into her ear.

"Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please!" the penetrating voice rose above the cheering crowds at his feet as Hawke neatened his handsome apparel and prayed no one had noticed he was armed far too excessively for an exhilarating event such was this one. At least this woke him up from his joyless vision of a life without the woman he loved, and Hawke intended dealing with the awkward situation in his own portentous way. "As you all know, the Guards Captain is marrying tomorrow her long-standing companion and brother-at-arms – Donnic Hendyr," he lowered his voice to a pleasant husky level, making sure he had the attention of everyone around. Hearing his name, Donnic whooped and gulped down his drink, which was rewarded with another salvo of cheers and a subtle bow from the Champion. "Don't even let me get started on how the two of them met for it involves Aveline being the meanest Guardswoman in history of our city and Donnic who almost went down with a terrible case of sword through bowels." The crowds burst out guffawing, though apparently some people had hard times deciding whether the Champion was joking or not. "May their love for each other and devotion to welfare of this beautiful city and its honorable citizens be an inspiration for all of us!" his voice soared up once again, so it would drown out the rejoicing voices which were silenced once Hawke raised his palm in a gesture of a father who lovingly admonishes his children to be silent. "I suggest we imbibe copious quantities of alcohol now in order to celebrate this union and don't you dare let Donnic's glass go around empty. We're gonna get him so drunk he won't find the altar tomorrow. Lucky man that his bride can always carry him to it…!" he finished his speech and boisterously laughed along with the others as they helped him to get off the stage.

"How was my speech?" was Hawke's first question when he finally managed to reach Merrill and the dwarf thirty minutes later.

"I wept," Varric simpered and mimicked how profoundly had Samael's speech touched his heart. "It appears our fop-coiffed hero read a book or two about diplomacy and manners after all."

"… says a petulant dwarf with daddy issues," Hawke growled and reached for the elf who all too willingly let herself to be trapped in his embrace.

"Easy, Hawke, finesse!" Varric pretended to be offended and took a dignified sip of his own drink which was in direct contradiction of the way Hawke gulped down his fourth chalice of mead.

"What…!?" Samael burped and rolled his eyes about being under such scrutiny. "Just because it kills your liver doesn't mean it ain't medicine…" he tried to vindicate his liquor consumption as he waved at Corff for a re-fill.

"Yeah, Hawke, you're a picturesque depiction of mental health," Varric commented on Champion's behavior.

"Yes, that's me," Samael slowly replied even though his gaze was locked with Merrill's at the moment. "I waste my potential on worthless experiments," he added and hungrily kissed the elf whose seductive glances were finally rewarded. "And unlike you, I never joke about the sublime art of burlesque entertainment," he managed to break the kiss for a second to grant the bored dwarf a haughty grin.

"Get a room, you two…" Varric snorted and hacked his way through the guests just to get away from the lovers.

"Not a bad idea at all," Hawke reflected and without any other word he judiciously headed for his room; leaving Merrill just where she was, so she could decide whether to follow him or not. The moment the heavy door thudded behind Merrill's back, the lovers tumbled into a made-up bed, but to Merrill's eternal exasperation after several heated moments Hawke climbed out of it, approached the door and cautiously listened in to distant chatter and sounds of celebration.

"Samael…" she moaned and tried to lure him back to bed. "Hawke…!" she purred a moment later when her lover remained motionless and apparently more interested in what'd been happening behind the door than in who was lying in the bed, offering herself to him in all glory.

"Hush," he hissed behind his back, too aware, that his rebuke left the elf pouting again.

"You planned this all night long, didn't you?" Merrill pointed an accusatory finger at him and gave a snort of disgruntlement. "Unbelievable…!" she bolted out of the bed and started buttoning up her gown and smoothing out her ruffled hair in such a vigor that she managed to make it even worse.

"Silly elf," with two long sudden steps he appeared right in front of the muttering woman and crashed his lips against hers, letting entirely up to her to decide what should happen next. "Tell me, lover, does this feel like a cold-blooded calculated rehearsal?" he breathed out between the frantic kisses and then held her face inches away from his own, awaiting a reply which she resisted to give in futile attempts to reclaim his lips again.

"No. No it doesn't," she moaned in unfulfilled desire and only then Hawke let her to kiss him again and again though he blocked her attempts to steer them toward the bed once more. When she realized it, she aggressively broke the kiss and pushed him away. "You're going to meet the Magister, am I right?" she shook her head as if she was supposed to see this right from the beginning. "And I'm to be your convenient cover, pretending you are here with me and waiting for you to come back. Or not," she gave him an ugly sneer and heavily sat down on a bed edge with her head in palms.

"Are you done?" was his annoyed reaction since she just quite aptly described his plan he intended to keep to himself. Rubbing his temples and trying to understand her defiance and break through it, he sat down by her side and gently nudged her shoulder with his own. "Is this the moment we share the tense sexless silence?" he asked after a while and when she turned her face to him, he realized in surprise her eyes were full of tears. "Merrill…" he whispered in sadness of seeing her like this and her lack of attempt to conceal the tears from him. She apparently wanted him to see her like this. "Yes, I'm going to meet the Magister for it appears I need him even more than he needs me. Thank the Maker that he doesn't realize this little inconvenient fact. And yes – I hope you would stay here along with my imaginary myself to provide me with alibi." Long deafening silence followed leaving Hawke waiting in suspense for her decision.

"I thought…!" she jumped up on her feet and her voice cracked, so she just wordlessly threw her arms sideways.

"You thought we'd spend a night together," he quietly finished her chain of thoughts for her since it was the very same thought occupying his mind right now. "One… Last… Night."

"No!" Merrill jerked and laughed and snorted and stumbled while managing to knock over a heavy unlit candelabra. "No, no, no, no, of course not!" she kept negating the statement and watching Hawke in horror in her eyes since he stood up as well and sauntered toward her with a teasing smile on his face.

"Merrill, Merrill, Merrill…" he shook his head in a chiding way and trapped her within his arms against the wall. "My bullshit meter is reading that as a 'false'," he crooned and realized in satisfaction Merrill was indeed unable to resist him. After all those years, after all they'd been through together, they were still drawn to each other with love and desire they couldn't fight even if they wanted to. "Tomorrow," he tenderly gathered her into his arms and kissed the top of her head, shattering the last pieces of defiance within her. "Tomorrow, my lover," he repeated and brought her chin up, so he could look into her eyes.

"I believe you," she whispered in response to his endearments. "Call me a fool, but I believe you," she smiled up at him, then glanced at the window in disquiet as this was the only way for Hawke to get out of there; unseen.

"That makes the two of us," his smile broadened before it faded as his departure was nearly upon them. "Give me two hours," he braced himself against what was he about to face and then he was gone.

The Kossith bouncer thought he had heard a soft noise at the back of the alehouse and just when he peered around the corner, a dark silhouette inaudibly landed on the ground into a crouched pose and there it simply blended into the shadows of night. The giant and the shadow within shadows exchanged a long telling gaze before the Kossith slowly nodded and returned to his post.

The celebration in the Hanged Man continued and no one seemed to notice they were one guest shorter.


	19. Chapter 19

"Magister, this is pointless!" a snobbish voice that deliberately prolonged vowels and came with a pair of narrowed cat eyes glancing around the midnight cemetery said. The eyes were so blue and bright that the unusual color was apparent even in the starless night.

"Patience, my dear," a mellifluous voice replied; smooth as silk. "Patience. He'll come." This time the voice didn't sound so sure, though.

The shadows crept solitarily through the narrow corridors of cemetery, moving in topsy-turvy circles; unknowingly, they had been drawn closer and closer to one another until they crowded under a full-grown willow tree in stifling silence. The uncertainty of what would happen in next second was tangible and it warped their minds with unreal visions of skeletons rising from the graves and returning the cemetery back to those who were dead. The Magister was a seasoned man indeed, though even his mind didn't go untouched by that dismal place of mossy decrepit tombstones, lazily slithering fluffs of iridescent mist which gagged him and tall twisted trees with their leaves being viciously ripped off by coming winter. It was as if the whole place was dead; not just men and women it was built for.

"Magister, I think we should go," the woman's voice didn't sound so snobbish this time. She kept jerking at any negligible sound and she would have drawn her staff if only it wouldn't openly show her fear.

"Now, now, Hadriana," he jovially massaged her tensed shoulders when a loud sound cracked not far from them, as if a shriveled thick stick broke beneath a boot. In such deafening silence, it resounded around as if someone banged a bell in cathedral. At a subtle sign of assent from the Magister, his apprentice and nine men he had brought with him drew their bows and staves and fanned out with slow cautious steps.

"If they shoot my horse, I'm gonna be really pissed off."

Danarius whirled around at the thin mocking voice in his ear and just for a fleeting second Samael was able to glance behind that mask of a venerable mighty mage who had powers at his command Hawke couldn't ever understand. There was an old frightened man beneath it, who was but a shadow of his former glorious self and who sweated like any other when Death came for him. But not tonight apparently, for tonight Hawke found himself in need of the Magister.

"Hold!" the Magister picked himself up remarkably fast as his smooth voice reached his minions who were not far from shooting at anything that moved; including the Champion of Kirkwall. "Spread into a loose circle around us and wait," Danarius issued a brusque order to freakishly tall minions' leader which was followed by much quieter one. "And don't you dare touch that…. animal." The beanpole of a man casually nodded and granted the Champion a wry look before he spat out and shuffled away. "I believe my apprentice and right hand can stay…?" This half-statement, half-question was settled once Hawke strolled in front of her, scrutinizing her up and down, giving her a strange expressionless long look which was reciprocated with those bright blue eyes which were gaining their edge by seconds. "I reckon you two have not yet been acquainted, so allow me to—"

"The pleasure is all mine, _Hadriana_," Hawke decided to ignore the Magister as his lips briefly brushed the defiant hand he brought up and held it in his, still eyeing the woman as a long-known person. Or enemy. "And no. She cannot stay," Samael uttered in a demeanor which would not suffer any disobedience and finally he let go of the hand he had been clutching in an entirely not-gentleman way. Hadriana's thin lips hardened into a crooked line as she barely held her exasperation behind teeth and her eyes flashed when Danarius waved her away, impatient to get to the point and blind to his pet's wrath of being left out of an important deliberations.

"Let us proceed to our agreement then, if it pleases you, Magister," Samael granted him a graceful bow when he made sure Hadriana was out of earshot.

"Nothing would please me more indeed, young man," Danarius didn't reciprocate the pleasantries this time as he clearly intended to clarify for Hawke that he was not a man to be toyed with. "State your demands, Champion, and let us be over with this."

"First, I require the assistance of all your men tonight including yourself. There is some… cleaning to be done," Hawke cautiously chose the words to voice his demand, stealing a glance at the Magister's apprentice who watched them from distance with a morose expression on her finely chiseled face.

"Cleaning you say…" Danarius repeated after the Champion the crucial word, rubbing his chin as if the word had fifty possible meanings.

"Yes, cleaning. You see, there is but one last faction brewing in the heart of Undercity and I am sure they are going to attempt for my life before the coronation itself, which is in two days from now. I task you and your men to raid their lair and—" Hawke suddenly fell silent as his feelings briefly took over which he tried to mask as he started pacing around the Magister within a semi-circle. "Leave none alive." Those quiet hoarse words sealed the fate of the mages Anders and Maurella had gathered for their cause as Samael halted within an arm reach in front of the old mage and his eyes, stubbornly cast down until now, slowly looked straight into the grey depths of Danarius' eyes.

"How many?" the Magister demanded a number.

"Not sure, but at least three dozens of scared, malnourished and bedraggled apostates who should have known better than trying to screw me over," Hawke crushed the words between his set jaws, but the truth was he was sick at the moment. Sick of himself, sick of the position he was maneuvered into, sick of everything.

"Anything else?" was Danarius' nonchalant way of accepting the task.

"Actually…" Samael's eyes sought the Magister's apprentice one more time and a vicious little sneer slowly dominated his expression. "I like your apprentice," Hawke's fiery eyes of a daredevil awaited in suspense whether the old mage caught a drift of what was the Champion saying.

"You… like my apprentice?" Danarius blurted out, needlessly repeating the obvious. "You like her… as if… _like_ _her_?"

"I want you to release her into my services. I shall become her Master and her life shall be mine to spend. In return, I'll give you the one you had come here for. He will go quietly and without a fight and you can do whatever you wish to do with him once you hold the leash again. I… don't… care. Tomorrow night, I shall give you _Fenris_."

And that was it. Just like that Hawke moved a finger; his voice uttered a word, and the balance of scales quivered and diverted the way he commanded it to. Lives of many people would be sacrificed, so he could prevail. A life of a friend would be forfeited to feed his own pride. His conscience would gain yet another scar and Hawke could nothing but hope it would be able to sustain it while the grim reaper laughed and inscribed with blood of innocent yet another sin to Hawke's already long list.

"I agree to your terms." Danarius took his time before he replied, fastidiously contemplating Hawke's demands and whether they were adequate to what would the Magister gain in return.

"Splendid." Hawke's response somehow stuck in his throat and what should have been a content smile about the beneficial deal, was more like a grimace of misery. "I then leave the first task in your capable hands, Magister. The entrance to the lair I've talked about is hidden somewhere around the white sepulcher you'll find at a center of this cemetery. I suggest you keep the second agreement to yourself until the time comes," he cautiously remarked as to point out Hadriana wouldn't be thrilled to be bartered for an elf she despised and whose life was apparently more precious to the Magister than her loyal self.

Wordlessly, the Magister extended a firm hand toward the younger man, seizing it once Hawke obliged, however hesitant. "This will hold us to our promises. I believe we both know what would happen should one tried to go back on his word." At those slow malevolent words, Samael shook to his very bone marrow. He knew what would happen if he attempted to wiggle Fenris out of the deal. He knew he would have Magister and his dogs breathing down his neck at every turn. This was not the most unsettling fact though. Samael, having difficulties to admit it, was about to betray a friend and he would do it _gladly_. He would do it for Merrill whom the Tevinter elf held in scorn and whom he attempted to murder several times by now.

"It's settled then. I shall take my leave now, for I have some of cleaning activities on my own." Hawke's hand slipped not without difficulties out of the Magister's grasp and he glanced around, his eyes narrowed in focus as they tried to pierce the thickening mist. If Danarius wondered what it was the Champion was waiting for in silence, the answer presented itself once the shadow of a strapping, yet lean stallion slowly walked out of the mist; the muscles bulging in restlessness, the head jolting up and down in anticipation, the long silver mane wildly waving in long curves, calling the rider to reach for it and swing up into a saddle and gallop, run, trot through the night until a pale dawn broke.

The Magister was, for once, at a loss of words as he appeared to have but one expression for the beast. "Magnificent," he breathed out, eyeing the proud animal with a scorching desire for something we cannot have.

"Yes," Hawke seconded with a simple statement of awareness as he dexterously vaulted into a leather saddle dyed into all shades of silver which looked rather humble in comparison with the horse. "Magister, consider yourself invited to an official after-wedding party for the Guards Captain I'm hosting tomorrow night at my estate in Hightown. I expect your arrival at midnight and don't bring more than two along with you. We do not want to cause uproar, do we?" he laughed a terrible laugh, though his eyes withheld any sign of gaiety. Like a brutish cat-and-mouse game with no winners in the end, it occurred to the Magister as his eyes clashed one last time with the Champion's.

"I accept the invitation," Danarius obviously decided to savor his disconcerted thoughts for himself. "I believe we have both affairs to attend to right now," he concluded the encounter with a chilling sneer on his lips which seemed as if they had forgotten how to smile a very long time ago.

"Until we meet again then," Hawke reflected and mildly heeled Occela who was restlessly shuffling around, giving a soft neigh now and then as if reminding Hawke to abandon words and resort to deeds.

"One thing at a time, my friend. Don't be hasty," Samael fondly whispered into his friend's ear flopping in excitement. "One thing at a time."

oOo

_I would never wield the twin blades again. Those two beautifully crafted, svelte, long, perfectly balanced twin blades. Weak without one another. Invincible together. Singing the song of torn flesh, skin on my face sprayed with fine droplets of blood, one breathless second right before my enemy realizes he is about to sustain the inconvenience of dying._

Absent-minded, Hawke stood above the dismembered bodies of men he had never seen before, who died because they happened to be at a wrong place, in a wrong time, serving to a wrong cause. His figure shrouded in a black cape loomed over the destruction, ominous in its torpor and only the blackening blood lazily gliding down the katana and dribbling off its tip showed, who was responsible for the slaughter as the blade was protruding from the merciful black cloth of a cape.

Left hand involuntarily clenched into a contorted spasm, a hissing sound of pain escaped the lips, an expression of dolorous acceptance settled on a face. What his father would have said, he wondered, as he strode over the corpse in his way, crinkling the nose because of the sharp stench filling his nostrils. Oh, he knew what he would have said: Never underestimate the power of friendly intimidation. And intimidate he did.

"Maurellaaaaaa!" he let out an eerie cry from the top of his lungs, speeding throughout the labyrinthine corridors, cramped rooms and wonky staircase. The shout resounded within the bowels of a house the witch was hiding in long after Hawke had let it out.

Breathless, the Champion burst into a chamber alike to the other rooms; small, empty, but not _that_ empty as Samael soon realized. Whom he spotted was most definitely not a scared, malnourished and bedraggled apostate. He was a big guy in the middle of his forties; seasoned, prudent and built to swing a heavy sword to hew down anyone who would dare give him a single hostile look.

Circling around one another, estimating each other, guessing if there was if only tiny possibility not to fight a giant silent man for Samael could tell there was a warrior indeed in front of him and he was quite sure he could live without knowing who of the two of them would walk out of this skirmish while the other one would kneel in a puddle of blood. "My quarrel with the woman hiding in that room behind you does not concern you," Hawke heard himself in disbelief as he started convincing the giant to drop the thought of a fight to death. "Leave now."

The big guy sized the Champion of Kirkwall up with cold hard stare and an unsheathed sword appeared to be his only response to Hawke's pleading words. A second later, he was a big bleeding guy since the first strike Hawke performed had cut the skin above his left eye before he even knew the fight had already begun. Samael was all over the opponent, lashing out, dancing back, exploiting here and there until he gained what he sought. The giant roared in frustration as he seemed simply unable to strike the nimble rival, so he let down his guard as he was on it with a great leap and the heavy sword swung on Hawke with a deadly force. With a war cry Kirkwall hadn't heard in a hundred of years, the giant attacked the Champion with ferocity of a dragon and certainty of a monk. The younger man barely dodged the attack, not admitting for a fleeting second that one single bad choice or move could have cost him his head, and then Hawke realized that this was it. This was the moment he had been waiting for. In one second he fluently managed to switch from his defensive stance into astounding counterattack. The katana vibrated, glistened and listened to the hand that wielded it as if they were one. Samael attacked the big guy with a savagery and abandon that was almost beautiful in its way.

From the profound silence Hawke realized the fight was over and his opponent met his destiny in this room. The Champion himself got away from the fight with nothing less than crimson welts grazing his right cheek and heavily bleeding deep cut on his left arm; the bequest of his both insane and magnificent way of how to end a duel.

oOo

"Daisy…?" A quiet question was accompanied with a soft triple knock on the door leading to Hawke's private quarters in the Hanged Man. Merrill indeed proceeded as ordered by Hawke, making mess in the room and faking loud sounds as if something was actually going on in the room where she was supposed to be with the Champion right now. However, last ten minutes she sat on a bed; frozen as a statue, listening to her racing heart and her mind generated scenarios with the same dreadful end played over and over in her head. That triple knock sent her back to reality and she effortlessly knocked over a chair as she reminded herself of her role here.

"Daisy? Hawke? Are you two all right in there?" Varric's alarmed voice reached the elf through the solid door and she managed to squeal back a proper reply of how great things were at the moment. A long silence behind the door gave Merrill hope that the dwarf would be mollified by her answer.

"Open up. I'm coming in," Varric uttered as he decided he was not mollified indeed. What really got him worried was the fact that there was no Hawke shouting at him through the door in the most colorful ways to shove his concern where the sun doesn't shine.

"Varric, there's really no need to… We are great… I think…" Merrill opened a crack the door, attempting to sound casual, when the dwarf leaned into the door and pushed it wide open, so he could see for himself how great things were inside. His brown eyes slowly flew around the room, stopping for a moment at several objects which in no way could had been accidentally smashed or moved, until they reached Merrill one more time with a single question Varric had at the moment.

"Daisy," he whispered as he inaudibly pushed the door shut behind his back, "where is Hawke?"

oOo

"Come out, come out, little piggy, wherever you are…!" Samael's husky voice echoed under the dome. This was it. The last chamber, unlike the other rooms, was vast and dim. The last place the witch retorted to hide in for she had nowhere else to go when an unexpected and least welcomed guest knocked on her door tonight. Well, more like razed the door open.

Maurella's chest heaved; her eyes flitted around her to find something, anything, to help her. She was pressed against the column thick as a one hundred year old beech, thinking so hard that she thought Hawke must have heard the wheels in her head screeching. No way had that rascal killed out the entire house full of apostates and members of their revolution! Yes, that was it. Maurella needed to but stall this murderer, until her men came running or Anders… Maurella gulped as her lover's name burnt her inside.

"Knock, knock," a soft voice right around the column whispered and a katana chipped off a piece of it as it landed right at a place Maurella's neck was a second ago.

"You…!" Maurella hatefully spat out as they started orbiting around the column.

"And you. Again." Hawke sneered at her through the black hair veil obscuring his face. Maurella was able to see that however Hawke attempted to look as the master of this situation, he was also as vigilant and cautious as ever, no doubt realizing this was not a petty apostate he was dealing with. And why was he here anyway, Maurella wondered. Wasn't there a fragile peace between the Champion and Anders? Wasn't he supposed to keep distance from them and, well, give them a chance to quietly plan out his assassination?

"Are you going to dance around that piece of stone all night?" a question hissed in annoyance reached Maurella's ears as she kept hypnotizing the Champion and moving around the column just to keep him away from her.

"Oh, not all night, I assure you," she purred a reply, but Hawke could see how her eyes kept flickering toward the only way out; the door Hawke had come in through. As if she was anticipating someone to come through that door.

"Your eyes betray you, Maurella," he whispered a rebuke and abandoned his slow stalking the prey around the column which was ridiculous anyway. "You're waiting for somebody. Let me clarify something for you then," he lowered the blade and threw the hair streams over his shoulder. "I'm afraid your lackeys have met with an untimely demise. No one is coming. It's just you and me, Maurella. Just you and me," he slowly stepped out of the column's shadow, carefully weighing his each step toward the witch. She indeed looked for a moment as if she accepted this subtle invitation to talk since she had no other choice anyway, but the bright flames which flashed in darkness and sent the Champion staggering backwards, screaming, as the flames burnt right through his apparel told Hawke that the witch was not prone to reasonable discussion. When he finished wallowing in the dust heaping on the crazed cobblestone floor, groaning in pain of his scorched flesh, a chilling sound of steel being dragged against the stone filled the chamber.

"Didn't expect me to quietly drop dead as you wish, did you?" she grasped the man's head by the long hair and pulled it up, so she could rather clumsily bring the blade across his throat.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Hawke coughed up the dust he had swallowed and he wished he could brush the hair off his mouth, "it just went from the sublime to the ridiculous," he briefly chuckled, but having the katana against his Adam's apple was not a hollow threat.

"How dare you…!" Maurella kneeled on her prisoner's back, breathing heavily and her nostrils flared. "How dare you march in here, killing as you please, ruining my beautiful plan!" she howled and shook Hawke's head as if trying to shake some sense out of him. "With your flippant tone, vulgar attempts of self-promotion, thinking you're something more than the rest of us the filth! Perennially drunk, shamelessly shagging one of my sisters and with that Devil-may-care insouciance of yours!"

"Yes, that's me," Hawke growled through the set jaw. "A sad persona with no self-esteem and a high-functioning drunk above all that," he lashed out at his interim vanquisher and tentatively he tried to throw her away from him. Nope. The bitch held on like a tick, not mentioning the katana had nicked him twice or thrice already. "I've got a proposition for you," he unexpectedly suggested after realizing Maurella had the upper hand at the moment. "Put that big blade away before you cut yourself, help me stand up and we can negotiate this situation. Either this or—"

"Or what?!" she lowered her head down to his ear, gloating about his powerlessness. "Or you rip me cornucopia of orifices and slash my guts open? Did I describe it vividly enough? Or perhaps you want to _show me_?" she kept poking him and the boundaries of how far would he let her go. Her cruelty Hawke did expect. Her inability to resist killing him he did not. Thus it was a sheer surprise for him when Maurella cackled one more time to his vulnerability, then she stood up and kicked him so he would lie on his back while the burns were close to his pain threshold between the worlds of consciousness and oblivion.

_Killed by my own steel. And they say I'm the only one with distorted sense of humor._

Samael attempted to evade the mighty blows of the katana and he succeeded for a time, but then he simply did not. Maurella, enraged and drunk on the unexpected power she gained over the Champion of Kirkwall, kept amateurishly thrusting the blade into the moving target, until she hit it. The steel cut through the skin and muscle of an arm all too easily and Hawke screamed. He screamed a terrible gut-wrenching noise resounding around and filling the dome.

"Step aside from him." A new voice; too hard to tell whether it trembled in wrath or in fear, thundered and dominated the scene. "I said step aside from him, you spawn of a misbegotten whore!" Merrill retorted to good old yelling and the head of her sparkling staff aimed straight at Maurella convinced her to do as she was told to. Slowly, hesitant, made Merrill her way toward the man lying on the floor; only his arms spread sideways, quivering, told her there was still life in him. She observed in silence the clothing burned through to the singed skin, the ruffled hair spread around his head and grey with dust, the slashes stretching along his face, the deep cut on his one arm from the duel and the other arm pierced through with the katana which lay two feet away; innocent, yet imposing even when lying in dust and dirt and now soaked in its Master's blood.

One sphere of pure electricity was all Merrill had to say about her lover's downfall and that sphere neatly hit Maurella straight in her chest, threw her away into a wall with tremendous power, where she seemingly hang for a fragment of a second and only then she collapsed down along the wall.

"Pfff!" Merrill spat out on her fallen rival's body when she cautiously approached it to make sure she was knocked good for a while. Then, as if a sudden thought was born in her head, Merrill grasped Maurella's motionless body by her ankle and dragged it toward Hawke who struggled to stay awake and somehow managed to succeed so far. "Calm down, ma vhenan," she fondly whispered into his ear when he attempted to speak, but nothing but a moan came out of his mouth. "Calm down. This shall be over soon," she murmured merely to herself when she ripped the sleeve of Maurella's robes apart and just as quickly did she slash the fine skin on her forearm.

Widened crimson eyes and words of long-forgotten tongue echoing under the dome with rising intensity; that was what Maurella woke up into. The body beside her squirmed, then a shape within the shadows around her sat up, stood up with difficulties while vague whispers mumbled from great distance. And Maurella felt so languorously, so sleepy, when her eyelids fluttered as they fought the drowsiness.

"Merrill…" Hawke bowed his head in penance.

"Shhh. Don't say anything." Merrill's finger brushed against the warm lips which were gaining their color again, now, when Merrill used up a fair share of her Dalish sister's blood to repay the ordeal by fire she had put Hawke through tonight. "What do we do with her?" she poked the wheezing witch with a foot. "Maybe we can take her with us and drop her on the streets?" she suggested. "Someone would surely notice her and take her to a healer."

Long Hawke watched her lovely face, musing about just how much he could afford to tell Merrill. Yes, she just had saved his life. Yes, again. But that made things even worse. Was he supposed to tell her there was a conspiracy brewing against him? That he used the Magister to purge their nest while he thought he could by himself cut the head of this conspiracy off?

"No." His quiet response didn't quite reveal to Merrill his true intentions at first. "She must die," he explained when the elf appeared confused. To avoid her inquisitive stare, he rather strolled toward his katana, watched it for a while in suspicion before he bended down for it and thrust in back into its plain sheathe where it belonged. "Go ahead. There's no need for you to see this," he gently pushed her toward the open door. "Go, I'll catch up with you," he repeated his half-order, half-plea when Merrill seemed reluctant.

Once alone with Maurella, Samael slowly sauntered to her lost deep in thought. His freshly mended wounds throbbed, the sounds of his steps echoed within the silence which had gravity of stone. There was no decent way of how to do what must have been done at that very moment. The fact that Maurella was still aware of what'd been happening around her made the situation even more detestable.

"Do it." A soft rattle came out of Maurella's mouth as she watched in helplessness as her executioner approached.

"I'm sorry it came to this," he replied with a voice not much louder than hers. The katana slipped inaudibly out of its sheathe once more and the air was vibrating around it.

"No, you're not." Even in this very last minute of her life, Maurella managed to outfox the Champion of Kirkwall and she made sure he knew it. "Do it," she hissed and her widened eyes were transfixed by the blade.

And Samael did it.

oOo

"Not that I'm not grateful that you showed up when you did…" Hawke leaned down to whisper into a familiar pointy ear. "But is it so hard for you to simply _obey_ once in a while? Me, being clearly at the Hanged Man throughout all this night, was an essential element of this adventure."

"Varric knows," she quietly replied with a colorless voice. "He tried to get in and—"

"So what?! He was being nosy, so you let him in then?" Samael flared up in one second.

"Varric is covering for you. For us! Is it so hard for you to simply _be grateful_ once in a while?" she repaid him his harsh words with a tiny change. Hawke seemed to have no reasonable answer to that, so they just marched through the house in silence for a while, until Samael's hand found Merrill's cold one in the dark.

"I'm sorry," he whispered after a placid moment of simply standing together at that strange place, surrounded by a couple of headless carcasses. "I think we both know how this would end if you hadn't disobeyed." Then a silence fell again; a silence that made them even more conscious of how unhappyn and lost they were without one another. "I believe Varric has figured out how exactly to make the tavern believe that all three of us are kind of present in my humble quarters…?" he raised an eyebrow at her.

"Hm," she contemplated the answer for a while, "when I was leaving, he was saying something like 'who would not want to go to a threesome with a lovable dwarf'…" she perfectly mimicked Varric's theatrical demeanor. To those words Hawke only heartily laughed and shook his head. Then he stole a glance at Merrill who was suddenly suspiciously quiet and gripping Samael's hand with both hers.

"Vermillion," he remarked at the color of her flushed cheeks. "The color of carnal shame," he added and blocked a lethal punch aimed to his shoulder.


	20. Chapter 20

A faint wind blew through Hightown as the Templar banners flapped over the heads of myriads members of this once venerable order. Knights sitting on their stirring mounts shoulder to shoulder created an impenetrable corridor between the Hawke estate and a lush carriage sent by Meredith that was supposed to safely escort the new Viscount to the Gallows where he was supposed to attend to an execution. Though many might have appeared to believe in Meredith's pure intentions and almost maternal concerns about the young Viscount's well-being, she most certainly didn't fool Samael with this sham for he was sure that Meredith was merely looking out for her investment and she wouldn't risk someone's attempt to jump out of the crowds of cheering Kirkwallers and cut her pet's throat in an unguarded moment right before she enthroned her dummy into the Viscount's Keep.

Cullen standing by the carriage was alike to statues adorning the Gallows; motionless, grim and his face gained an unhealthy ashen tinge. One of his fresh recruits was loitering short way off holding the bridle of Cullen's mount and his eyes watched in suspicion the waving crowds behind the living wall his brethren sustained.

„Captain, Sir, the Viscount was supposed to come out nearly a half an hour ago. We cannot dally," the hot-headed recruit finally seemed unable to remain silent as he approached his superior and voiced his concerns.

„It will take as long as needed," Cullen crushed his reply between set jaws, when it was clear the recruit wouldn't leave him be. Only now he realized how tense he really was. After all, they were about to execute a man he had considered an honorable asset to the Templar order for many years, however there were times when he saw Alrik's actions as extreme to say the least. „As I know Hawke, he's plotting some grandiose entrée no doubt to please the crowds," Cullen mirthlessly laughed at his own assumption. „Either that, or he's long gone by now."

„Sir...?" the recruit peeped and his eyes widened in horror of such an idea. As many, many people of Kirkwall, even this young man put all his faith into a new strong leader who was about to ascend to the Viscount's throne, clean the city and establish peace and order once more.

„Don't worry, Presley," Cullen patted lad's shoulder when he realized the young Templar recruit took his words mortally seriously. „I'm sure he's going to show up and save the day. As always," he added a much quieter bitter remark. „But I'll take a look in there anyway," he uttered after a moment of hesitation, strode right through the corridor and disappeared within the Hawke estate. The heads in polished Templar helmets ghostly moved as they watched their leader passing by them, only to go back to their stiff eyes-front pose.

Cullen didn't get far though as the bowels of the mansion were shrouded into cadaveric silence, the heavy velvet curtains were meticulously drawn together and all candelabras and fireplaces were cold and dead. Was it possible? Was Cullen's sardonic remark unknowingly describing what had happened? Was Hawke gone? Why else would his mansion appear to be so deserted? Where were all the servants, the Kossith warriors who had been notoriously seen around the Hawke estate? Where was that nosy dwarf of a butler and his son with magical fingers?

„Hawke?" Cullen shuddered at the sound of his own voice as it was overpowered by pulsing silence and died away in it. Taking the broad staircase by three steps at a time, Cullen dashed upstairs and razed the door to Hawke's bedroom. A loud sigh of relief escaped his lips once his eyes still not yet fully adapted to dark made out a silhouette sitting on the bed that looked as if no one had slept in it a while.

Since there was no reply to Cullen's cautious demand to part the curtains and let inside a few beams of autumn sun, so the Knight Captain could actually see who was it sitting motionlessly on the bed and ignoring him, Cullen simply went ahead and slowly pulled the mossy green velvet apart.

„Thought I finally snapped and ran away, did you?" The words; so quiet, so full of unspeakable pain, were hoarse and barely audible.

„Hawke—" Cullen dared making a few steps toward the younger man.

„See, I couldn't do that. One simply does not break through the iron bars if Meredith was the one putting the unfortunate individual behind them."

„Samael, I—" Cullen's hand carefully touched Hawke's shoulder, but the Champion shrugged it off of him in disdain of such a simple gesture of human kindness and empathy. Only now Cullen realized what was it Hawke was apparently hypnotizing just before Knight-Captain's arrival – a stuffed figurine wearing an official apparel Hawke was supposed to wear to the coronation. Why there were four more identical apparels hanging around them Cullen did not know, nor did he care, as he ascribed it to Hawke's general excentricity or to Meredith's cautiousness to have more of them, should Hawke decided to take his vengeance on the innocent fabric and rip it to shreds. „The carriage is waiting for you," Cullen, seemingly calm, remarked. „We all do."

„I've ordered Bodahn to saddle up Occela. Take that silly carriage yourself if you will." Hawke rubbed his swollen eyelids and raked fingers through his black long hair which were apparently the only improvements he intended to perform before the dreadful event. „Any objections?" he flared up and looked up into Cullen's unhappy face.

„Master, whenever you're ready. The mount is saddled, Miss Merrill is being accompanied to Sundermount by three Kossiths though she seemed uncomfortable with this arrangement and I've taken care of those last crates in the basement and ordered them to be shipped straight to the—" Bodahn faltered and he would have rather bit off his tongue than saying anything else once he realized they were not alone.

„Serah Feddic," Cullen bowed to the old dwarf and frowned at the implications of what he had heard. The Keeper apparently kept visiting the city as she pleased, and what crates could the old butler mean?

„Knight-Captain," Bodahn coldly reciprocated Cullen's greetings and turned back to his Master immediately. „Master, how comes you haven't changed yet to the attire I've laid out for you?" he kept rambling while he rather vigorously started unbuckling Hawke's notoriously known black leather outfit. „Would you mind stepping outside, Captain? My Master will be out in a minute," Bodahn shot a telling look over his shoulder at the Templar who had been tentatively gawking at the two men.

„Not at all, Master Dwarf. I'll wait outside, Hawke." Cullen understood the silent assurement from the dwarf and he seemed even relieved that Bodahn had obviously things firmly in his grasp. At least someone did, he thought to himself, as he glanced one last time at the apathetic Viscount-to-be.

„You can do this, but you need to believe in yourself now more than ever," Bodahn broke the silence once his Master was properly attired and the katana hung in an adorned scabbard by his left hip. Seeing his Master pained and trapped in an unbelievable situation was terrifying indeed, but Bodahn had a gift to see hope where many would have given up and accepted the darkness of their fate. „The things are proceeding exactly as you outlined. I'll finish up once everybody is in the Gallows observing that brutish event your people find entertaining. That should draw the attention off your men carrying the last crates away. That's something to be grateful for, Master. Don't lose hope now. The greatest darkness occurs right before dawn."

„Hope," Hawke snorted at the word and strolled in front of a mirror on talons. It belonged to his mother once, and the more he looked at his reflection and his elegant clothing, the more the lines of his face hardened into a hateful glare. „Hope has abandoned this place a long time ago," he uttered and headed for the stables. Occela was indeed prepared, even dolled up, as his usual subtle saddlery was replaced with ceremonial set and the stallion looked as magnificent as ever as he was restlessly scuttling around the private garden. Hawke did not summon him as he was simply content with watching the creature for a while, happy in its ignorance and interested in nothing but running, breathing and eating. Once Occela noticed he was not alone anymore, he measuredly walked to his Master, jolting his head in excitement of what would come next.

„I wish I'd have your fervour right now, my friend," Samael murmured and his gloved hands wandered over the silverish warm skin of Occela's body. „All right, let's do this," he kept muttering merely to himself as he swung up into the saddle and made himself comfortable while Occela was dancing beneath him in raptures. „Don't you dare throw me down in front of all those people, you hear me?" he admonished the horse once more and this time a light smile curled up his lips when he saw the sheer thrill Ocella was in. Hopefully the stallion had heard him and he would behave, although you could never know with that wilful beast.

With one last reassuring nod, Bodahn and Sandal pulled the heavy gateway leading to a street wide open and Hawke sitting solemnly on Occela was suddenly exposed to many eyes; far too many eyes. Occela seemed startled at first, but his Master's firm grip and several soothing sounds calmed him down again. The waves of cheers coming from behind the Templars' back seemed muted to Hawke's ears. Elthina's presence was like a direct slap to his face once Samael felt the intense gaze of her deep wise eyes on him, reminding him they were about to execute a more or less innocent man to protect his little dirty secrets, feed his own vanity and need for revenge.

More intuitively than by his Master's order, Occela started regally walking down the corridor and he seemed to be having a rollicking good time with all that attention he no doubt deemed justified. Hawke on the other hand felt vulnerable and ill at ease. Where was a dark safe corner when an assassin needed one, damn it? When was Hawke halfway within the corridor, his eyes met with Meredith's who awaited him at the end of it, clearly irritated by her pet's disobedience to mount a horse rather than take a carriage with her. Hawke slowly drew up the reins until Occela halted. Meredith was now near to furious when she realized Hawke's sneer broadened into open gleeful mockery. With all the resolve Samael could have mustered, he broke the eye contact and straightened up in the saddle, so he could oversee the masses of people crowding behind the living wall of Templars and chanting glory upon his head and this city.

"Move," Hawke growled a command at the nearest silent guardians lining along the way. This sudden turn of events stirred some commotion by the carriage, but it seemed Meredith decided to maintain decorum after all and pretend as if she hadn't been just grievously offended. "I said – move," Hawke repeated the command much louder than he had intended this time and his demand indeed left the Templars puzzled as they started fidgeting and seeking guidance from their leaders, but none of them was in sight. The once impenetrable embankment of human flesh and veridium armor broke and Hawke rode right through it and disappeared in the cheering crowd right in front of Meredith's shocked face.

Countless risen hands touching him in reverent awe, murmured blessings to him and his children, little boys groping at his katana resting in a scabbard – these were the impressions Samael gathered on his way to the Gallows during this conspicuously beautiful autumn day. He rode toward the execution of one of his sworn enemies, yet he felt as if it was his own.

oOo

The drums thundered and each sound pierced Hawke right through and left a fresh scar on him. The execution itself hadn't started yet and he felt already drained of all energy. Moreover, the worst of it was yet to come.

People were chattering in suspense among themselves and that odd thrill of watching someone to pay for his alleged crimes reflected in their feral eyes. Many of them were relentlessly watching the gate that the condemned was supposed to walk through. "Here they come! Make space! Here they are!" the lone voices resounded above the Gallows yard until they all merged into endless crescendo of insults, mockery and laughter. All aimed at Alrik who had lost nearly everything just as Hawke predicted and swore on the banks of Bone Pit lakes. Now it was the time to take away from Alrik the last thing he had left – his life. Paralyzed, Samael was overlooking the preparations from his seat of honor where he was closely watched by Aveline, Sebastian and Varric. He was unable to perceive their concerned glances and raised eyebrows they were exchanging behind his back, nor did he reply to any of their questions. All he knew at the moment; the only thing he was positive about, was that it could have been easily him being dragged through the mud, being screamed at and being humiliated until the last piece of his pride was taken away from him.

"Enjoying the show, Champion?" Meredith's voice in his ear sent shivers throughout his whole body. He jerked, as if awakened after a nightmare, and brushed his forehead with a sweaty palm. "Is it being carried out to you expectations?" she continued tormenting him. "Is one of my most trusted and reliable men looking filthy and degraded enough to your eyes?" she hissed and Hawke realized he was not the only one suffering here.

"Pardon him then, if you will." It took up all his remaining strength to look at the woman who had yet to discover she was just a walking corpse thanks to the same rascal who orchestrated this execution. "Turn the crowds against you," he shrugged as if he couldn't care less. "Take away from them that last little piece of certainty that there still is some law enforcement in this city."

"Don't you speak of law, Champion," she spouted at him loud enough for several nobles to glance their way in alarm. "You should be the first one I hang on the nearest tree then!"

"Go ahead," he prudently studied her infuriated face for a while, noticing a nervous tick she had developed, her widened eyes with a feverish glow within them and trembling hands. Then he turned his head back to the wooden structure with the noose gently waving in the fresh salty breeze coming straight from the sea. Next thing he knew was that Meredith was no longer breathing down his neck as she clawed her way through the nobles; to be anywhere but near to that insufferable person who was spinning out of her control along with the whole city that was supposed to be hers and hers only.

Hawke's heart skipped a beat in the next second for they brought the prisoner right in front of him. Claiming that Alrik looked terribly would be an amusing understatement. Soiled rags instead of clothing, dirt and filth ingrained into his skin, his once manicured white goatee beard grew into a mass of repulsive hair of uncertain color, but the most dreadful sight were his eyes. Those eyes; once bright blue intelligent windows into Alrik's crafty head, now reminded Hawke of cloudy wells of utter despair that would not take mercy on anyone and anything Alrik had the power to drag down along with him.

"Oh, mighty Champion," Alrik mimicked a sardonic obeisance and grimaced as if he was hurting. "Or is it Viscount already?" he pretended fright only to start cackling a moment later. "You know, time is an unfathomable phenomenon when one is locked in a pit," he attempted to saunter toward the Champion as if he was brought here for a polite discussion, but two pairs of cogent Templar gloved hands grasped him by his shoulders and pushed him onto his knees to which Hawke almost objected and masked his unease with waving his hand toward Cullen who was entitled to recite the accusations and confirm the punishment that included the rope and a pair of twitching legs in the air.

"Otto Alrik," Cullen stepped forward and looked down in pity at what was left of his former brother-at-arms. "You've been found guilty of lyrium smuggling, abuse of the Circle mages, bending the rules of Templar order to your personal gain, theft and treason to the people of Kirkwall. Admit to your crimes now and you may yet stand by the Maker's side, for He is forgiving and merciful." Samael noticed well that Cullen had been reading the words from his vellum mechanically and his voice was colorless.

"I taught you everything you know today, Cullen," was Alrik's hushed pleading reply to the charges. "I uplifted you within the Templar ranks. Is this how you're going to repay me?"

"The condemned refuses to confess. May his soul be forgiven one day in the Beyond." Cullen recited as if he hadn't heard the pleas that had the power to move even the statues around them; let alone a soft-hearted young Templar. "Do you have anything to say?" he asked again with that expressionless face, but Hawke saw right through it this time. Cullen was waging a similar battle inside of him just as Hawke was. Their eyes may have met once or twice, but they both knew that this was not right. This was now how it was supposed to end for Alrik.

"Actually, I have plenty to say," Alrik granted the Champion a toothy grin when he glimpsed a flash of sheer fear within Hawke's eyes. "Kirkwall, hear me!" he turned his back at the Champion and spread his arms sideways. "Your city is being unknowingly taken away from you! You are running thin of leaders truly looking out for you and your interests! You are surrounded by backstabbers, imposters and criminals!" Spouting out these accusations, Alrik's voice gained an unusual intensity for a man who'd been starved, tormented and condemned to die in front of those whom he once protected. Theatrically spinning around, the prisoner stuck a blaming finger right into Hawke's face to leave no doubt about whom he was speaking of. Hawke's face was now completely bloodless, his lower lip trembling in helplessness, his eyes widened in horror. How could he face the man he had framed? How could he let alone look into his eyes, now, at the time of ultimate reckoning?

„Hear my confession, Kirkwall. Yes, I've sinned. I've sinned in a way that I dared standing in this man's way! I alone am now able to see through the mask he's been wearing for years to fool you all and I'm going to tear this mask down right here, right now, for the sake of us all to see what's hiding underneath it!" Alrik's fanatic voice was now resounding all around and some of his men started closing in on him to obviously pledge their rennounced allegiance to him again. Once they'd do that, there was no way Hawke could possibly ever get rid of Alrik and this whole plot would backfire right into his face.

Samael had made many mistakes in his life. For far too many times he had done something he didn't think through first and sometimes it led him to dark places where he had to face the consequences of his imprudent actions. But not this time. This time he had to either hope in the Maker's attempt to smite the man who was about to publicly ruin him, or he had to smite him himself.

Not having the time to think; not even able to with the blood frantically pulsing within his head, Hawke slowly rose from his seat of honor to his full height, approaching from behind the man who had Samael's life in one hand, and in the other one his own. The katana reflected the sun beams and blinded the nearest gapers while Samael took off Alrik's head with a single sure stroke. The head bounced off, rolling.

An inappropriate long silence followed; the most profound and telling silence disturbed only when Alrik's headless corpse collapsed to its knees and toppled over while the dark blood kept gushing out of it, painting an indecent picturesque pattern on the white cobblestones.

"Say… something…." Aveline's lips mimicked the words as she was apparently the only one with some sense left. "Hawke… say something… damn it!" she sizzled right above a whisper, but her eyes were transfixed by the dreadful scene just as everyone else's.

"This is how Kirkwall punishes its traitors!" Hawke extended his arm toward the fallen enemy and he let out an inhuman war cry that was not heard in Free Marches for decades.

Then something unthinkable happened. From all possible outcomes, all imaginable reactions to this murder in broad daylight, the crowds burst out howling and they moved forward like a single man with a single intent. The Guardsmen Aveline attempted to shield Hawke with were swept along and Kirkwallers ripped the man she loved as a brother away from her in no time.

"Haaawke!" she shrieked in panic and started elbowing her way through the roaring masses. He granted her nothing but a resigned glance and an almost imperceptible assent of acceptation of the inevitable.

"Wait! Aveline, wait!" Varric's hands grasped her by her waist right before she started reaching for her sword and it is necessary to say it took all Varric's stalwart figure to stop the Guards-Captain from throwing herself into the worst turmoil with a punishing blade in her hand. "Look!" he dragged her up the stairs again, so they would gain better view of what'd been happening.

"But…" Aveline's mouth opened in disbelief. "They are…" she gestured toward the tunnel Hawke had left behind him and his captors and which was quickly being filled by people again.

"Yes," Varric confirmed the observation and vigorously rubbed his chin, "it seems they are celebrating him."

And so they did and the crowd rejoiced for a man who stood by them that day. Only few voiced their doubts about what had really happened and even less paid any attention to what Alrik had said right before he died. It was a good day for Kirkwall and Hawke started realizing it just now when the people were carrying him on their shoulders toward the Viscount's Keep.

_His people._

oOo

Aveline Vallen married Donnic Hendyr in 9:37 Dragon; the very same day as was Hawke carried to the Viscount's Keep on the shoulders of singing Kirkwall.

"I still can't believe you refused to walk me to the altar, Hawke," were Aveline's first words when she managed to carve her way through the myriad of congratulators and reach the Champion, who retired to a side Chantry aisle along with his three silent Kossith guardians.

"I still can't believe you refused to wear a white dress, Guards-Captain," he retorted and Samael's dreary face lit up a bit once he was able to see his friend's face showing nothing but pure happiness and strong hope in good times coming her way.

"Well…" Aveline blushed and masked her disconcert about an allusion about her deceased first husband with a cough.

"But virgin bride you are not, I suppose," Hawke kept nagging her and laughed a quiet, desperate laugh while his hand slowly crept to a pocket, where it briefly squeezed something in a fist. But Aveline didn't seek out her friend just to hear yet another congratulation to her wedding.

"Hawke, I'm really sorry it turned out this way. I'm sure it must have been hard to watch the ceremony and—"

"Aveline, please don't," he dismissed her clumsy attempt to show her sympathies.

"I did invite Merrill to the wedding ceremony and I wanted you to know that I hold no grudge toward her. If I could only say the same about her though—"

"Which part of _don't_ have you failed to understand?!" Samael immediately flared up, only to smother the fire within his eyes a second later. Fortunately for him, Tethras trotted without ceremony straight to them, extolling himself over and over again since it was up to him to drag the Guards-Captain down the aisle and hold her by the altar just in case she changed her mind about seeing through this whole marriage affair.

"Was I an astounding bridesman, or was I _the_ legendary one?" his both arms swept the air in an elegant bow and only the enormousness of the dwarf's ego prevented him from realizing how serious discussion he had disrupted with his bragging. Hawke for once was grateful of being liberated from the inquisition and his fingers slowly let go of the black ring burning a hole in his pocket. It was only when Aveline seemed to be done admonishing the dwarf about being insensitive to Hawke's pain; she realized, that the man in question conveniently disappeared in the crowds in the meantime as if he no longer could listen to how little time he had left before Merrill would walk out on him for good.

"Now you've done it," she glared at Varric who just snorted in reply and gestured with his hand just how big the halo above his head was. "Anyway, have you gotten the same message as I have?" she lowered her voice and briefly showed a small black elaborately folded envelope before she slipped it back into her ceremonial armor.

"I did indeed," the dwarf mirrored the Guards-Captain and lowered his voice into a conspiratorial whisper. To prove his words, the very same black envelope appeared in his hand before it vanished in folds of his fancy attire. "What does he plan on this time, I wonder…" his voice trailed off as Tethras started musing about what these Champion's mysterious envelopes could possibly mean. "And the sinister plot even thickens," Varric almost rubbed his hands once he spotted Anders and Fenris approaching them; each from one side and both with the same envelope in their hands.

"I guess we have to bear with him for now and attend to that reception at Hawke estate," Aveline sighed and nodded her greetings to both newcomers. "Hopefully to celebrate my marriage…" she added a nervous remark when no one appeared to have any observation to this odd invitation.

"Messeres, can you please excuse my lovely wife for now?" Donnic finally managed to get rid of all Guardsmen patting his back and giving him bear hugs and here he stood in front of his blushing bride; tall, clad in polished steel and impatient to finally have his woman only for himself.

"By all means," Varric gallantly handed over Aveline's hand to the restless groom, "I'll make sure the guests outside of Chantry are properly ready to greet you and that they indeed left a spacious corridor between the door and the carriage."

"Can't we just, you know, _walk_ back to Hawke's place?" Aveline droned an ill-tempered question.

"Appearances, my dear Captain," Varric responded with a broad grin and already on his way out. "Everything is about appearances these days," he called out to them one more time before he left the Chantry.

"I suppose it doesn't matter," Donnic brought Aveline's hand to his lips and that enchanted look on his face told them that he had probably no idea what had been going on around him.

"See you at the reception," Aveline granted both Anders and Fenris a warm smile before she pushed heavy Chantry door wide open to greet her new life with ovations.

"Good night," Donnic's misplaced addition to her invitation revealed what stage of the marital consummation he would rather skip to right now instead of the opulent reception at hand.

"Well, are you coming?" Anders shyly asked the brooding elf from Tevinter, attempting to give him a friendly face for once. Suddenly they realized they were among the last ones in the Chantry and the situation got awkward right away.

"Isn't this place the one where your ninny boyfriend was made Tranquil?" Fenris ultimately killed the friendly tone with his heartless observation. "Apparently yes," he sneered to himself once Anders' face gained all shades of ashen, his eyes flickered with blue flames and he rather stormed out of the Chantry, so the tall walls of the Maker's house would not gain a new carmine color splashed here and there.

"Hmpf," Fenris continued in his soliloquy and his eyes roved around the beautifully decorated nave in disinterest. "I do hate weddings."


	21. Chapter 21

Amongst the vast glades covered in first hoarfrost and naked trees moaning in the gushing wind, Kirkwall looked like a gleaming jewel on that evening; the very evening before the coronation. The nobles and anyone of importance started impatiently hoarding around the Hawke estate right after the wedding ceremony and the rest of Kirkwallers; who were still in majority, split up into many little merry groups that dispersed into Lowtown alehouses and Hightown taverns – based on how quickly and how cheaply they intended to get themselves drunk on this unique occasion. The robust voices of the chosen ones to participate in the secluded celebration rose and fell above the white courtyards of Hightown and no one seemed to mind waiting outside, as long as the promise of an evening filled with unbridled debauchery was warming the nobles up.

Finally, the two-wing front door dramatically swung open without anyone to be seen actually opening them, and the company started trickling inside, exchanging pleasantries as well as quiet remarks regarding who wore too much jewelry and who wore not enough. An unbiased observer would figure out soon enough that the ugliest, elderly women with fat necks were covered with diamonds and wearing daring robes in the most flamboyant colors, while some young beautiful maidens dressed in airy white and silver gowns were most likely hidden behind those fat women, jealously chaperoned at all times. The only exception was whenever the Champion of Kirkwall was in sight; then the same young beautiful maidens were displayed like merchandise and more than one noble in the room was hoping it would be his daughter who catches the young Viscount's eye and then a convenient marriage would be in order.

Samael stood in the center of his quarters and it would seem the Champion of Kirkwall turned into a statue. Not a move, nor a breath, gave away what he felt at that moment – the chaos of his thoughts and emotions he'd been feeling for weeks. His plan worked like clockwork – there were no doubts about that. His business in Kirkwall was ultimately wrapped up with a big bow on top, he was free to sail away anytime, anywhere as he pleased, yet he found himself unable to do it when it finally came to the deed itself. The lavish mansion of his ancestors he had loathed once looked like a home suddenly. His home. Not only once he had been sneaking through vast chambers filled with old records of the Amells, antiques, and riches Hawke didn't even know he possessed until he saw them with his own eyes, and he searched there even the smallest cupboards, opening any dust-covered chest he dug up, watching Sandal scratching his initials into the balustrade and laughing when it took him a while before a big clumsy "S" was finally set into stone. Everywhere he looked, memories were staring back at him. A table in his bedroom, stained with bright orange stains as one of Merrill's alchemy experiments got out of hand, an enormous wardrobe with one of its legs almost gnawed off, as Charon kept working on it for a couple of years, so now it threatened collapsing down, ugly black dots covering ceiling in the kitchen, confirming that he shouldn't have ever allowed Sandal to enchant one of his daggers inside of the walls that seemed so precious for Hawke at this moment.

_To leave all that?_

_Impossible!_

_What was the reason to leave Kirkwall in the first place?_

_Irrelevant now!_

As much as Hawke tried to remember, he simply couldn't. Merrill would leave him shortly regardless where he went anyway. Meredith – well, that was just a matter of time before the hag dropped dead on her own. Problem solved. The Viscount's crown was waiting for him at the Keep, and the Grand Cleric would ceremonially bestow it upon his head in a couple of hours. All his enemies were vanquished. None could hurt him now. None was his equal. Yes; becoming the Viscount of Kirkwall would be an incredible burden as well as a mere sentence to remain in Kirkwall for at least next couple of years, but would it be so bad actually? He had friends here. Real friends. A roguish smile ran across his face when he remembered those closest to him, though he couldn't pretend as if the list of his friends wasn't growing thinner and thinner as the years passed by. With Fawn gone for so long and without any message from him nor his father, Samael ceased believing that Fawn actually meant his promise seriously and Hawke would have to send a search party once Meredith was gone. Ah, but what's one more claw jabbed into his already hole pierced heart, right?

Finding himself on the edge, yet so surprisingly cheerful about his current situation, Hawke finally started acknowledging loud laughter and muffled voices coming from downstairs. Good. The party Varric was once again throwing in his name had apparently started. Now, that he tentatively decided to stay in Kirkwall, it would be obviously sensible to appear at the party; even behave, and prudently attempt to meddle with Kirkwall nobility for once. Samael was sure that Sebastian would be more than happy to introduce him to those few Hawke hadn't encountered yet. The moment the prince's name popped into Hawke's thoughts, he realized, that this was the first problem he would face, should he really decided to stay in Kirkwall – his debt to the Starkhaven Prince.

"Hum," Hawke slowly strolled toward a huge mirror on talons and leaned on it with his both outstretched arms, watching himself as it unbelievably slowly occurred to him, that he would be probably obligated to dispatch at least six Templar platoons to Starkhaven after all to help Vael to reclaim his stolen throne. "Shit," Samael aptly commented on the unexpected obstacle and straightened up again.

A salvo of boisterous laughter sent him back to reality, so he rather decided to abandon this inconvenient conclusion and start paying attention to his appearance. The apparel he wore to the wedding was shrugged off in no time, awaiting some diligent dwarven hands to pick it up later, and Hawke randomly fished out another one from his closet. It was not alike to his favored black leather in the least, but it would do, Hawke thought to himself, when he slipped into comfortable, not too tight pantaloons, and shrouded himself in a white shirt with bulb sleeves richly adorned with silver embroidery. Almost unfathomable hum of pleasure escaped Hawke's lips once the silk touched his skin. It was not so bad to dress fancy from time to time after all. Dark crimson jerkin with subtle pattern then came over the shirt and Hawke's fingers reached for its clever clasps to fasten the garment snuggly around his torso. An inconspicuous belt peppered with little rubies did a nice job with emphasizing Hawke's waistline and then Hawke's hand hovered over the katana scabbard. Yes… Why to bear this thing around all the time? Was he not home? Was he not surrounded by his Kossith warriors whose loyalty to him was now a matter of legends so unyieldingly embellished by no other than Varric Tethras?

"Sleep for now, old friend." Hesitant, Hawke's fingers stroked the plain scabbard and his whisper died away. One last look into the mirror told Samael that his hair braided into thick streams for the wedding were indeed still presentable to the delicate eyes of the nobles and there was no need to pretend Hawke didn't look simply good. Realizing it, his face slowly melted into a coy smile and the eyes twinkled in suspense of a stimulating evening. When the Champion walked into the light of fully lit up chandeliers with a self-confident smirk all over his face a minute later, he didn't even notice his hand automatically snatched a pair of thin black gloves from his dresser as well as the black ring. It impatiently lit up right before it slipped around Hawke's finger where it stirred for a while, then slowly glazed over. The other ring was not far after all and its twin knew it.

oOo

"… and believe it or not, the Duchess of the Moss Peek had to wear that appalling two sizes smaller gown and no one was allowed to peep, let alone laugh! Can you imagine the horror?! Complete disaster!" Lady Daveth bended her head backwards and let out a squawking laughter while clapping her hands in joy regarding her own snobbish anecdote from the glorious life of a noble woman.

"Surely you weren't that cruel to mention it to the poor Duchess afterward, my lady!" Sebastian rewarded the boring story with a polite smile and he courtly lifted woman's hand up to his lips to which she giggled and hid her face behind a lavish fan. Apparently anything just to shut the dowager up was worth it. "Hawke, would you mind giving this charming lady a tour around your estate? She is utmost interested in how the Champion of Kirkwall came to be," he continued with a solemn smile on his face and it was a smile of a king; upright, benevolent and with only a hint of superiority. "Hawke…?" he turned to the taciturn Champion when no reply came, which was curious since the Champion seemed in a good temper throughout the whole evening. In fact; Sebastian didn't recognize the Champion at all. He was polite, winsome and led many sharp-witted conversations with whomever Sebastian had introduced him to. But regardless of where Samael went or whom he was talking to, he always felt _her_ at his back. Always felt her eyes watching him, heard her steps following him, despairing when his pretended indifference toward her reached its peak. But as her restlessness grew with the late hour, so did his, until it was unbearable.

"Excuse me," Hawke diplomatically stated and without a single glance at his current companions he started walking toward the object of his desire. It was small, chatty, pointy-eared, and it was wearing an airy gown Hawke faintly recognized as a gift from him. "Excuse us," he used the same blunt technique once he reached the group of people that was engaging the Keeper in an apparently very interesting conversation. Merrill indeed looked up in awe when the Champion wordlessly grasped her by her wrist without ceremony and departed from the group along with her, followed by the gazes of many.

"Kids, eh?" Varric's attempt to make the awkward situation lighter succeeded as most of the nobles went back to their conversations and Lady Daveth had obviously settled for the charming Prince of Starkhaven when it was clear the Champion of Kirkwall would not rejoin them.

Merrill yanked her trapped hand out of Samael's grip as soon as the door of library shut tight behind their backs and she took a deep breath to voice her outrage. "Hawke, I do not appreciate being—" But Hawke didn't come there to talk. Embracing her fragile frame into his arms, he slammed them both into the nearest wall, so however his actions may have been understood as aggressive, Merrill knew better by now. This was on the contrary Samael at his weakest, most human moment of this evening. The rings flared up once their hands connected and their fingers intertwined.

She moaned when she felt his hot breath on her skin, subtle kisses along her jaw line, taunting her to give in to this moment they shared. Feverishly, she let her fingers roam along the neckband until they found their way beneath the soft garb and left no doubts about what she'd rather do at the moment than leading soulful conversations. But there was much to be done yet before the evening was up; at least Samael was realizing it if not his elven pet, so he rather fished her cold hands out of his clothing where he could see them before this situation spun completely out of his control. Letting out a loud moan that was right on the edge between chagrin and desire, she nestled tight against him, sniffing around the bare skin on his neck before she buried her face in the warmth of his chest.

"Satisfied now?" he murmured, barely concealing a low chuckle that was conjured by her presence.

"Never," she gave an ardent reply and looked up into his eyes. She studied them and a small wrinkle appeared between her brows as if she was disconcerted by what she had glimpsed within them.

"So beautiful," he traced the features of her lovely face with a gloved finger; his face pensive, his words distant, as if spoken only for his own ears only. "So… impatient," he smiled faintly at her earlier clumsy attempt to tear the clothing off him since it had been usually the other way around in the past.

"Then when?!" she rapped out in exasperation and let go of him as though his touch was poisonous. Her almost desperate response confused Hawke and he just got confirmed that their soon separation was taking its toll on both of them in very different ways.

"Tonight, my little pariah," he reminded her of a loving soubriquet he had used once for her. "That's a promise." He waited for any sign of assent from her and only then he reached for the door knob, but not before he briefly checked whether his apparel was neat and didn't give away what the Champion might have been doing alone in the library with his mistress. "Please stay close to me tonight." He wasn't looking at her when he said out loud the words he originally intended to keep for himself. As it turned out, they were exactly the words Merrill craved to hear the most from the man she loved. The tension in her face eased off and she gave him a demure smile when she said "I will."

oOo

"So, Hawke, don't be shy now!" Varric's grin broadened, but it was just a transparent guise he dressed his nervousness into. Six persons were sitting around a round table while silence and gloomy atmosphere pressed them down in their seats, and only small moves like scratching here or there or occasional cough let Hawke know they expected nothing good coming out of his speech. Little black envelopes with invitations were left crumpled on the table seemingly forgotten as a wordless accusation and a question at the same time regarding why the Champion insisted on secrecy of this meeting, while the party behind the shut massive door was apparently at its peek of profligacy and glamour. Only Sebastian nonchalantly held the envelope in his white hand with long elegant fingers, waving it now and then to entertain himself.

Samael felt nothing short of uneasy himself and this restlessness kept him pacing around the table with his arms folded behind his back and sorting out his thoughts about how to approach the dire situation. Finally the sounds of his pacing went quiet; not by mistake Hawke stopped right behind Merrill's chair, and she straightened up in her seat in attention. Apparently it took all her resolve not to turn her head and fix her bright doe eyes on her lover whose hands slowly circled the carved backrest of her chair in contemplation.

"You no doubt wonder why I brought you here," he started his speech; his words quiet, his eyes focused somewhere distant. "I reckon you're aware that the Viscount's crown shall be placed upon my head by tomorrow noon." This time he granted each of his companions a short inquisitive look, gathering their reactions as he made a pause after the sentence, co its content could be understood in its full extent.

"Hawke, allow me to stop you right there." Aveline slowly rose from her seat and she nervously neatened her dress as she clearly felt uncomfortable wearing it instead of her armor. "I mean, are you _sure_? Are you _sure_ you really want this?" she asked the questions in a frantic, pleading manner as if she was expecting him to break down in tears and confess that the thorny crown would be forced down onto his head against his will.

Hawke took all the time he needed before he replied and he made sure he would leave absolutely no doubts about the clarity of his devious plans. "I'm perfectly sure about what I'm doing, Aveline. If you ever wanted to question me at any point of our relationship, then you've chosen the worst moment to do so." He hurt her feelings, but she didn't say a word. Samael's eyes then found Fenris, but the Champion would be surprised if he had actually heard any of what'd been said so far, because ever since the Tevinter elf sat down along with the others, he'd been leering at Merrill and sneering and Samael knew the reason why it was so; oh yes he did indeed. He knew about the silent agreement between Fenris and Anders he had witnessed in the tombs beneath the Chantry. He knew all too well what the price for Merrill's head was and what sad role the Tevinter elf was unknowingly playing here. That led Hawke's gaze to the master mind behind the whole plot – Anders.

The treacherous snake in Hawke's midst Anders; calm as he pleased throughout the whole evening, dancing, eating up plate after plate of exotic meals Hawke's money had paid for, and also exceedingly drinking which was very unusual for him – all that made Hawke almost unable to even look at the man who thought that he was smarter than Samael and knew what's what better than anyone else. The same man who was now reciprocating Hawke's glare with uncertain face would blow him up tomorrow along with the church full of people and apparently half of the city as well, having no remorse doing it whatsoever. Just thinking about it, Hawke slowly jabbed the fingers into the wood of Merrill's chair, though the gloves prevented anyone from perceiving that passively violent gesture. The pain in Hawke's crippled hand shot out into the whole arm and if nothing else, it at least reminded Hawke to control himself and the way he was looking at the mage changed immediately. The mage didn't seem mollified in the least though by that sudden change. If anything - he was now straightforward anxious, and doing a very poor job while hiding it.

"If no one has any questions, I'd like to invite you to the coronation ceremony then," the Champion even squeezed a faint smile out of his grim-self. "Tomorrow, high noon, at the Chantry." Affirmative murmurs were the reply to Hawke's heartfelt invitation, followed by his brief, yet elegant gesture toward the door, and the Champion slowly strolled toward the window overlooking the lit-up Hightown at night; his arms were once again folded behind his back in a solemn manner.

"One more thing," his stentorian voice reached them just as Anders enthusiastically grabbed the door handles to pull the massive door apart and return to the party and all its pleasures. The Champion glanced over his shoulder at his friends crowded by the door, only to go back to his peaceful gazing over the rooftops. "Many attempts have been made on my life in the past. You all know that," he almost chuckled to the irony of his words. "But recently, these attempts have been annoyingly… numerous." He heard them whispering and Aveline had apparently succeeded in calling an imminent meeting discussion about what to do with this life-threatening situation. "You can all stop fretting," Samael threw a dismissive glance over his shoulder again and only now he realized Merrill took his earlier plea word on word since she loitered practically in his arm's reach. "It was _you_ I wanted to warn and protect, you fools," he added quietly and paused again to allow the words to sink in. "Therefore please accept my hospitality until the very hour of the coronation. I'm sure you are all more than familiar with my mansion by now and all its comforts and servants are at your disposal for the time being."

"Do you hear that, Bianca? We've been waiting for this one for years," Varric rubbed his hands as he started imagining all the exotic bottles he always wanted to open and taste while taking a hot bath in the upper bathroom that contained all luxuries of the current world. If Hawke allowed the dwarf to invite two whores into the bathroom, it would be a veritable paradise on earth indeed.

"If you insist, Hawke…" Aveline absently nodded as if she couldn't care less about where her wedding night would take place, but Hawke knew well she was still ruminating over what he had said earlier about the safety of their lives. Merrill remained silent since it was clear for both of the lovers where would they spend the night, and Merrill cared for nothing else. Fenris watched in suspicion the secretive exchange of long gazes between the lovers, saying nothing, but as soon as Hawke's eyes found him, he avoided them in panic. Something in Hawke's stance caught his attention though; something ominous and hidden behind an impenetrable wall of words they both failed to tell each other.

"I'm afraid I will have to decline your offer, however kind it is." Anders took a few hesitant steps toward the centre of library; unsure about what game was Hawke playing with them, but he was sure as hell he wouldn't participate. "Your concern about my well-being is… unexpected. And I thank you for it," he added quickly, so he would not appear ungrateful. "But I won't stay."

Samael slowly turned around to look at the mage and then he stalked to him one step at a time until they faced each other; both tall, both adamant and admirable in their own way. Not a word of reaction came from the Champion the entire time regarding Anders' defiance which was disturbing enough on its own.

"I—" Anders's mouth opened and closed a few times as he faced the scrutiny of the taciturn Champion. The mage just seemed too transfixed by the blazing eyes right in front of him, challenging him to defy – oh how they begged to get any sign of disapproval from the insolent mage!

"This was not a discussion." Samael dismissed Ander's objection with quiet simple words; but the gravity of those words was even more severe that way. He left Anders to stand where he was with his arms loose by his sides, as he was trying to comprehend how quickly one could become a prisoner at the Hawke estate. Clueless about what'd been happening, why, and what would Maurella say when he didn't show up for their final review of their plan and usual night activities, Anders looked ridiculous as much as silly. "Fenris," Hawke glanced at the Tevinter elf as he passed by him, "come with me please," he asked, but it was more of a polite order really. Nonetheless, Fenris trotted right behind him and Merrill's eyes narrowed when she caught his derisive glare he cast her way. After all, she wasn't just invited to whatever Samael had on mind now. Fenris was.

"Always full of surprises, are we?" Fenris said to no one particular as they descended to cellars beneath the Hawke estate, but he received no reply to his light conversation starter and that was enough to set his mind off. Where they were going? Where was Hawke leading him? Only now Fenris realized he had but one dagger suspended from his belt, but it was more of a fashionable accessory to his evening outfit that a real weapon. "Hawke, where are we going?" Unable to mask his tension no longer, Fenris asked in a small voice and his words fell down to the ground as heavy as boulders of all the pain in the world.

"There's someone you need to meet tonight," a simple reply came when Hawke casually attempted to push the rusty low iron door open. It resisted, then it opened a crack; then it finally yielded to the pressure and swung wide open; squealing. By now, every fiber within the elf screamed at him to turn around and run away, but he stayed against his better judgment as if an invisible puppeteer decided to animate his muscles and follow the Champion to the centre of unexpectedly large chamber with low ceiling Fenris had never visited before.

Standing there, shaking, his lyrium veins etched into his fair skin pulsating, Fenris watched his worst horrors coming true. It was as if he passively watched himself standing there motionless in the epicenter of echoing emptiness, vulnerable, miserable, awaiting his destiny with submission that was decided for him. And his destiny awaited him indeed, lurking in the gloom; shapeless, nameless evil, until it stirred and made itself obvious as it walked out of dark shadows of past.

"Danarius," Fenris breathed out and that single sound was less than a word. It was merely a moan of a tormented soul that was never fully free, but only now Fenris was able to fully realize it. "How could you?" he reached for Hawke with both his hands, wheezing the words almost inaudibly, though it was not clear whether he was about to rip his throat out or steady himself on Samael, since the elf's legs were about to betray him. "HOW COULD YOU?!" he let out an inhuman roar and shook the Champion of Kirkwall, but suddenly Fenris realized that that was all the man standing by his side was to him. He was a distant idol, a cold, unreachable mountain, terrible in its beauty, cruel in its very essence, unforgiving to whoever dared defy it. A famous man, a hero to those who didn't know better, who decided to recognize him no longer. Fenris could see it written all over Hawke's face that looked like carved of stone – a betrayal for betrayal. Somehow, however impossible it seemed, Hawke learned about the deal the elf had made with Anders. Samael warned him thrice now to leave Merrill alone, but did Fenris ever take those warnings seriously?

"Don't you _dare_ look at me like that," Samael could remain silent no longer as he shrugged Fenris' hands off him as if they were unworthy to touch him. The look he gave to the devastated elf was unbearable to withstand. "Not when I repeatedly reminded you to get your filthy, deprived, hateful hands off her_._"

Fenris' mouth moved, but it took him a while to ask with incredulity "So this is about—"

"Merrill!" Hawke burst out shouting. "It's been always about Merrill!" He was now the one mauling the poor elf around, senseless. "Did you think I'd let you hurt her and let you go unpunished for that?! Seriously?! Or did you think I wouldn't ever find out about your neat little deal with that devil's spawn?" Feeling a little better, now, that it was all in the open, Hawke abruptly let go of the elf, clenching his forehead with both palms as if he was tormented by a splitting headache.

"Very touching…" Danarius' nasal voice broke the silence that was interrupted only by heavy breaths of two former friends as they were eyeing one another in hatred. Once again reminded of the fate that was apparently ready to reclaim his life, Fenris changed his tactics.

"Hawke," Fenris pleaded to the Champion who was once again silent. "We can fix this. Help me kill him and we can go back to things just as they were. Hawke. Please, reconsider," his pleas went on and on and it seemed as if they were working since Samael seemed taken aback by the passion in Fenris' voice for a while; he even peered askance several times at the Magister and his loyal lackey Hadriana who was impatiently watching the elf as if worried he'd slip out of her grasp like so many times before. But the silhouette standing in the doors, until now perfectly silent and motionless, pushed any doubts Hawke might have deep down once he noticed her presence. With genuine shock on her face, the Dalish Keeper stood there, unable to comprehend the situation in any way that would make sense.

"Now, now, my dear Champion, what's it gonna be then? Didn't I have your word to take back in peace what's been mine anyway? I held my end of the deal," he calmly reminded the Champion of their insidious treaty which was very straightforward about what was expected from both sides. "I expect you to honor our deal and do the same," he casually finished his speech and he did tried his best to hide the menace subtext of his cautious reprimand. It was as if Hawke wasn't listening to him at all though. He was watching Merrill's agitated face that was in utter contradiction to his emotionlessness and only his eyes glinted in curiosity as if he was estimating her reaction to what seemed as blatant betrayal of their friend, though no one could really say Fenris was ever Merrill's friend and mean it. Seeing now the both elves standing right in front of him, Samael realized there was never much of a choice if he was forced to choose between the two of them.

"Samael, what's happening?" Merrill let out a choked question as she started putting two and two together and she'd noticed that odd rising resolve within Hawke's eyes.

"Bewildering that it had to come to this to realize—" Samael whispered merely to himself, shaking his head in amused disbelief and leaving everyone in the room rather befuddled and questioning his sanity. "Take him!" he hurled the final verdict at the Magister over his shoulder without breaking the eye contact with the Tevinter elf who was looking at him as if he was a ghost. The words were said, the dice were cast, and Danarius' men swooped down on the unfortunate elf in two breaths, but Fenris didn't struggle. He couldn't. "If…!" Hawke quickly stopped their doing and turned to the Magister who was afraid he might have started rubbing his palms prematurely. "If our deal really stands in its full, let's say, phrasing." Samael then glanced in Hadriana's way in an utmost eloquent way and waited for the Magister to reply.

"Oh, yes, that little clever clause of yours to our deal…" Danarius beckoned in benevolence and gracefully waved his hands as though he couldn't care less. "My dear," he turned to Hadriana who just now started to smell the rotting deal her Master had made and that included her without her knowledge, "it seems our paths part here in Kirkwall. Let me introduce you to your new Master, blahblah, be a good pet to him as you ever were to me," he stated in utter indifference while the expression on Hadriana's shocked face was priceless.

"Magister… I… You… He…!" she gathered her strength for nothing but an incoherent ramble while her half-insane eyes flickered from her old Master to the new one.

"So, is she mine now?" Hawke casually demanded a confirmation as he started sauntering toward the Magister's apprentice who was still too shocked to do anything apart from standing there and looking silly.

"Yes. Pleasure doing business with you, Champion." Danarius expressed his consent and granted the Champion a deep bow that could have been easily mistaken for a genuine gesture. Nothing else was of interest to the Magister it seemed at the moment; nothing, but the fact that with his both hands he was once again clutching the restraining chain with Fenris bound to its end.

"Good," Samael quietly acknowledged the confirmation as three blades materialized at the tips of his fingers and without a second thought he plunged those blades into the body of Hadriana who seemed surprised for the first time in her life. With disgustingly squelching sounds Hawke vigorously ripped the blades out of her body and let them slip out of his fingers. They clanked and just barely Merrill managed to hold a scream of dread inside of her, yet a soft sound closed to a sob escaped her mouth anyway. It was enough for Samael to wake up; to realize there was fresh blood glistening on his glove as if it had life of its own, and to search for the source of that single strange sound. He turned around and there she was standing: the woman whom he'd done all this for, pressing her both palms on her mouth in dismay while her wide open eyes shone with tears of fear. Hadriana rattled and three dark stains started spreading on the delicate fabric of her robes, until they merged into one bizarre crimson pattern.

"My lord?" she whimpered in denial of what had happened, when she heavily collapsed to her knees and started crawling on her three limbs toward the Magister since she was clutching the mortal wounds with her fourth one. It was somehow woeful to watch once powerful witch to crawl in dust like a pitiful slug, leaving a massive blood trail behind her and grasping her former Master's vestment with all her remaining strength. Hadriana died a few heartbeats later with her eyes wide open and gazing up into the face of a man who had sold her out in the most repulsive way and got rid of her the moment it was convenient for him. Danarius himself appeared to be horror-stricken by the sudden downfall of his apprentice, but since he'd given her away willingly and without giving it much thought, it was really up to her new Master to do with her as he saw fit, wasn't it?

Apparently reaching the same conclusion, Danarius slowly came to his senses and he tore his eyes away from his apprentice lying on the cold floor in the puddle of clotting blood. The stench of the spilled guts and blood was sickening. Leaning heavily on his staff, Danarius stirred, and his eyes grey as the depths of muddy lake sharply looked at the Champion of Kirkwall whom the old Magister would never perceive the same way again after what he'd seen him doing in cold blood.

"I believe our business is concluded now." Samael turned to the Magister and coldly reciprocated his gaze, but his demeanor changed the moment his eyes found Fenris. "I would briefly speak with your slave for one last time, if you'll allow it, Magister," he turned back to Danarius, waiting for his response and he didn't even bother to pretend as if it wasn't important for him.

"Hum," Danarius contemplated the request, feeling the superiority creeping back into him again, "I'll allow it," he gave his permission with a condescending smirk and waved his hand at his men to act accordingly. They brought the slave to a distant corner when they attached his chain to a solid ring embedded into the wall.

"Fenris," Samael then hesitantly approached the elf, but stopped at reasonable distance from him when Fenris' tattoos flared and the elf actually snarled at him. "I've given you a promise once," Hawke's eyes then glanced at the Fenris' fallen enemy. "I'm honoring this promise tonight. Here lies Hadriana whom I did not know at all, yet I loathed her because of the way she treated you. What happened apart from that is of your own doing when you decided to come after a woman I love even though I warned you not to." Hawke's face was solemn and his eyes burnt with righteous fire, but the happy memories bound him to that being in front of him; a being that had no idea how to love someone and even less how to let anyone else to love him. Despite that, Samael and Fenris had spent countless hours together and the Champion would remember forever the thrill he felt when he found out their minds were alike, that perverted excitement when he realized that nothing could stand up to them once they faced it together, that myriad of nights they had spent entertaining each other in bed or in endless drinking binges that usually left puddles of blood behind them and warrants for their arrest hanging on every corner in Lowtown. All this fragile unspoken collusion came down crashing however, once a young Dalish woman stumbled between them and unknowingly wrecked it all.

"Keep your empty promises for someone stupid enough to actually believe in them!" Fenris spewed a reply at him and he yanked the chain several times like a rabid dog. "This," he jerked his head toward the corpse, "changes nothing, Hawke. Nothing, do you hear me?" he started yelling at him and Danarius just rolled his eyes since at this point he was bored by this situation that had spun a little out of his control. "You can hide, Hawke. You can crawl into whatever fancy hole you can buy with your bloodied coins, but I will find you one day." Almost fanatical zeal was mirrored in Fenris' deranged eyes. "I've escaped once, I can do it again, and then I'll find you and I'll kill you! This is my promise to you and I shall keep it with just as much diligence as you did," he kept on convincing merely himself while nodding in frenetic pace and chuckling to himself.

"Silly elf!" Samael suddenly closed the gap between them, cupping Fenris' head in both his palms; crashing it in between, as if to convince him to listen. "I'm _counting_ on it, that you'll get away from him one day. I've done all this because I simply cannot have you parading around alone anymore, constantly watching you, despairing and guessing when you decide to go after Merrill again and worry every night that I might not be able to stop you next time!" For a breathless moment, Fenris kept silent, clearly upset about Hawke's agonizing words since his lower lip started trembling and his eyes slowly closed in defeat, only to open again and pierce the traitor with irreconcilable hatred that was once again in complete contradiction when the elf leaned forward and pressed an ardent kiss on the lips he had kissed many times before, but those lips now belonged to another one.

Once they parted, they were both breathing heavily, watching each other in an uncomfortable silence. Fenris was the one who felt like he had to have a final word though. "I'll be the one that kills you one day, Hawke. Be ready when we meet again," he tenderly whispered and his words had the gravity of a mountain.

"I would expect nothing less from you, my friend." Broken, Samael stepped back from the one whom he had called a friend for one last time. Danarius gave out a signal and his entire retinue immediately moved like a single man. Not a word was said between the Champion and the Magister of Tevinter Imperium when they bowed their farewell and Samael couldn't otherwise but notice that Danarius was looking at him differently. He would swear there was a flash of fear and respect within his eyes that wasn't there before, but Hawke couldn't care less about it anyway.

Feeling forlorn and unclean, Samael slowly turned around to face the Keeper. How he wanted to comfort her, hold her in his arms, do whatever she desired! And how he needed her to sanctify his actions as unavoidable! She must had been terrified of the Magister and Hadriana, or even of the raging Fenris, Hawke thought to himself, when he tried to conjure a faint smile on his face as he started walking toward her. The smile faded though just as quickly as it appeared, when Merrill shook her head like she was forcing herself to do something, angrily smudged a stray tear on her face, then straightened up as if she won an extensive inner fight. Only then she fled. She was running for her life, sobbing a little and smudging the fresh tears out of her eyes, so she could see where she was running. Not that she had a particular plan.

Stunned, Samael contemplated for a while this unexpected turn of events. What the hell just happened? Why did she run? Wasn't she relieved to be finally rid of Fenris? Didn't she appreciate what Hawke had done for her? That he'd sacrificed a dear friend to keep her safe? Didn't he deserved a little of respect for that?

"Shit!" he alleviated his growing confusion with a salty curse right before he set off right after her, racing to catch her before she bumped into some curious guest which would be most unfortunate. "Merrill!" his desperate shouts echoed all around the Keeper as she kept rushing down the meandering corridor, desperately jiggling every door knob she could have found on her way, just to get away from what she'd seen. "Merrill! Wait! Stop! Damn it!" His cries were now drawing nearer and they were full of panic Merrill had never heard before, but even now she refused to listen to the voice and do as it commanded.

The corridor abruptly ended with an iron gate and Merrill quite ingloriously collided with it head-on. Half-blinded from the crash, she grabbed the clammy handle and yanked it open. To her relief, it opened and she bolted right through it, but not before she shredded the sleeve of her dress and ripped her arm wide open on a sticking-out spike that served an unknown purpose there. Hissing in pain, she glanced behind her only to realize Hawke was nowhere to be seen and his voice suddenly died away in the entrails of the cellars. A few shaky steps upward the three crumbling steps led Merrill straight into the heart of Hawke's private garden where she glanced about in helplessness. The snow started falling at some point of this horrid night and Merrill's feet wearing only velvet slippers were quickly getting numb with cold as she started wading through the heaps of fresh snow. The tears were uncontrollably streaming down her cheeks by now as she pondered her possibilities. Right now, she felt incredibly silly as well as petty. She whirled around once more at the sound of a cracked frozen twig behind her back, but she spotted no one in sight, only to realize her tormentor stood right in front of her the moment she turned back. Being paralyzed by fear anew, she let go of her throbbing wound to defend herself and the droplets of fresh steaming blood sprayed the snow forthwith.

"Merrill…" Hawke quietly addressed her and reached for her and that single word sounded as if he was both dying and holding back tears at the same time. "Merrill, what's wrong? Why have you run? I don't understand!" he desperately demanded an explanation, but none came. She evaded his touch with hysteria and Samael then pulled his arm back as if it was bitten by a viper. She couldn't be that scared by one over-aged Magister and a single dead corpse, could she?

"Don't touch me!" she needlessly shrieked and staggered away from him, surprised when he indeed remained standing just where he was. Since a terrified witch is also a dangerous one, Merrill's hands started emanating dim light and only now she was able to glimpse the expression on Hawke's face partially obscured by the disheveled hair veil. Apparently it would be hard to determine which one of the two of them looked more ghastly than the other, but the reply for that manifested itself once Hawke collapsed down to his knees in front of the only one who was allowed to see him like this. It finally dawned to Hawke that Merrill wasn't running away from that room nor from the Magister; not even from Fenris who seemed to have only one thing on his mind lately – to take away her life from her. She was running away from _him_. She was scared of _him_; of what he'd done to a human being that had never wronged him before just because his henchman asked him to do it. Hawke killed in cold blood many times before, but for the first time he felt deeply ashamed for his actions. What was wrong with the world that a creature full of darkness like him would sit on the Viscount's throne tomorrow?

"What have you done, Hawke?" A plaintive question broke the silence and Merrill was scared just how loud it sounded in a deserted garden that was slowly disappearing beneath the snow. "Why Fenris?" she plucked up her courage and drew closer to him.

"He…" Samael unsuccessfully searched for the right words to explain, and then he simply lowered his head down again in silence. "He hurt you," a choked answer came from him after all.

"Many people have hurt me in my life, Hawke, and I never asked anyone to frame them or kill them just because of it!" she mercilessly chided him. His shoulders just slumped at the truculent words, but just as Merrill, Hawke was getting angry.

"Well, maybe you should have!" he finally decided to fend off her verbal attack and a distant fire burnt bright within his eyes when he jerked his head and looked at her, then slowly rose to his full height; fuming. Needless to say it took him all his stubbornness not to tend to Merrill's ever still bleeding arm since it bothered him beyond measure.

"And what's that supposed to mean?!" she lashed out at him with a miffed high-pitched mewl.

"It means that ever since I've known you, you were absolutely clueless how to take care of yourself! Don't you dare stand there and blame me for doing it instead of you then!" he blew up at her, shaking her as if some sensible solution would drop out of her. "I'm a killer, Merrill! An assassin, or murderer if you will, call it whatever you like! That's all I know, that's all I've known my entire life! I kill things and I take great pleasure while doing so! Don't act as if you picked up on that just now! I've even found someone just like me. Just as broken and twisted as I am. Then you came along and you ruined everything!" he stuck a blaming finger into her face. "Everything!" he ardently repeated, and apparently he was nowhere near calming down. Not yet, anyway. "And yet I stand here, with you, explaining myself, while Fenris is being dragged back to Tevinter, since it turned out to be absolutely necessary to keep several countries between the two of you!"

Merrill stared at him and his frenzied raving completely transfixed. When it seemed he was done yelling, Hawke just threw his arms sideways as if he considered any other words as redundant in this dispute, so he rather raked the fingers through his hair to finish the doom of his elegant coiffure. When he turned back to Merrill with his arms akimbo, even though he had no intentions to do so, she just gasped for breath, let out a few subtle mewling sounds, and suddenly the Champion had his arms full of a Merrill. So full in fact, that they tumbled together down into the trampled snow, where they did not move, nor they spoke for long minutes.

"Samael?" she whispered somewhere into his chest.

"Hm?" he hummed a reply and neither of them noticed one nosy dwarf with golden chain around his neck who gawked at them for a while from an opened door, then he rolled up his eyes and went back inside to party somewhere where were no heaps of snow and less guilt flying through the air.

"Down there," she tunneled her way out of Hawke's embrace to see his face and reaction to her question, "you said you loved me…?" she cautiously brought forward the sensitive topic. Just as she predicted, Hawke shifted and started fidgeting around, but then he stopped and looked down straight into her eager face with lots of uncertainty within his eyes.

"Yes," he quietly confirmed what they both knew already. "I suppose I did." His lips then curled into a restrained smile that vanished once his eyes found the gaping wound on Merrill's soft skin. "I believe this needs my immediate attention," he pronounced in a way that would not suffer any kind of disobedience.

"Samael—" she breathed out in alarm.

"Let me explain the meaning of a word _immediate_ then," he easily brought them both up with a resigned sigh.

"Samael, you don't understand!" she pleaded with him to listen; her voice was right above a whisper. "Someone is watching us!"


	22. Chapter 22

"Someone is watching us!" Merrill peeped in urgency. Only then Hawke abandoned his care for the Keeper as he slowly turned around to see for himself. Just behind the line where the light coming from the mansion that was ablaze with countless adorned chandeliers ceased to be, a gaunt tall horse motionlessly stood with just as motionless rider who for some mysterious reason decided to ride the ugly horse bareback. Watching the peculiar duo who had yet to explain what were they doing in his private locked garden in the middle of a night, Hawke subconsciously shielded the elf with his own body, narrowing his eyes to make out the face of a stranger or at least puzzle out the purpose of this untimely visit. Glancing at each other, the lovers cautiously headed toward the unexpected visitor and Hawke's eyes grew larger each step of the way. Leaving Merrill at a safe distance, he approached the horse on his own, only to confirm what he knew the moment he laid his eyes on the stranger dressed in rags.

"Father?" he addressed the ever still rider in disbelief who in stony silence slid down of a skeletal horseback right into Hawke's arms. Not ready for such a burden, they tumbled together down while Merrill halted in a skid just by them, frantically drawing aside the felt-like thick strands of hair and therefore revealing rider's face. Samael ripped his glove off of his hand with his teeth and touched the ashen face. Its coldness obviously startled him since he recoiled his hand from it in panic. At least Merrill seemed to have her wits about her as she reached for Malcolm's wrist to check the pulse and then she started slapping the old man who stirred after a breathless moment and an almost inaudible rattle came out of his mouth once his eyes opened a crack and apparently tried to focus on the worried face that was floating right above him.

"And so I've found you," he managed to wheeze right before a strong cough sent his body into spasm. "My… Son," he whispered once he was able to draw breath again.

Samael for once was speechless when he pressed a fervid long kiss onto old man's forehead before he lifted him up on his feet and hastily headed for the same inconspicuous door Merrill had used to run away from him, letting the old man to lean on his with his full weight.

"Samael," Malcolm attempted to stop him gasping, "the horse, look at the horse…!"

"I'll take care of you. Take it easy. Just let me take care of you," the Champion refused to procrastinate and he kept dragging his father toward the door.

"Look at him, look at the horse, damn you, lad!" Malcolm clutched his son's shoulder and the urgency in old man's voice was almost ridiculous, given the fact it was channeled toward an exhausted scrawny horse that would die at any second, what was confirmed a second later when the wretched beast collapsed down where it writhed for a few moments before it turned inert.

"It's dead, father, I'm sorry, now let's go!" Hawke stole but a glance at the poor animal, intending to keep going, but it was Merrill's gasp of surprise and her hand on his shoulder that finally coerced him to stop and take a good look at the horse. "B-but," he faltered when the horse right in front of them started changing its form, until there was an emaciated, naked body lying in the snow instead, slowly gaining its color and temperature as well. "Maker…!" was all that Hawke managed to say.

"Take him inside first, my son. I believe I've got more time left than he does," Malcolm granted his hesitant son a serene smile right before another wave of devastating cough took over his body. Since Samael perfectly understood that each second would count here, he didn't waste any more time as he gathered the still body into his arms and literally flew through the corridors to his laboratory where a comfortable bed was placed in case the Lord of this mansion decided to stay up along with his experiments, taking brief naps when the substances were reacting together. To his relief he met his father supported by Merrill right outside the lab, and it was a good sign indeed, that the old man was able to walk almost on his own, however slow his pace was.

"Merrill," breathless, Samael nodded at the witch, "I left some lyrium in there. Please use it however you see fit while healing Fawn. I'll smuggle my father to a guest bedroom upstairs and tend to him," he hastily outlined the plan and he would have taken his father away already, but something within Merrill's eyes caught his attention. "Merrill…?" he asked her in alarm. "You do realize it's in your power to save him. Save our friend," he patiently explained to her; completely confused about the lack of her usual ebullience.

"Samael," she took a deep breath, "this is the man that separated us once already in case your memory is _that_ short," she coldly reminded him and only now it came to Hawke that in no way Merrill had ever forgiven Fawn for his arrogant decision to make a Keeper out of her against her will.

"It's also the man that saved my father," he retaliated a little more loudly than he should have.

"You can't ask me to do this!" she also raised her voice in agitation. "Please don't make me!" her voice cracked when she glanced into the lab and saw the lifeless body on the bed.

"I can and I implore you to do this!" Samael also changed his attitude toward his lover when he briefly brought his hand to her face, tracing the delicate tattoo net on her chin.

"Whenever you're ready, kids…" Malcolm leaning on the wall sourly reminded them of his presence and more than sorry state of his health.

"Please," Samael whispered one last time before he threw his father's arm around his neck and circled his waist with an arm to escort him to a bedroom.

Having really no other choice than to give up her own wounded pride and comply with her lover's request, Merrill trod into the lab, murmuring something indecipherable in Elvish tongue. There was a lot of healing to be done and if Mahariel died on her now, Samael could easily come to a conclusion that she deliberately allowed it to happen and watched his passing away with satisfaction. And that wasn't something Merrill wanted – or was it?

oOo

"Are there three dwarves gaping at me or am I hallucinating already?" Malcolm found himself submerged into water so hot that wisps of steam were dancing above the surface and tickling in his nostrils.

When Samael managed to smuggle his father into his own private quarters, he realized he definitely needed help with him. Malcolm kept choking on severe cough, reeling around the room, while he kept insisting he just needed a little rest and hot soup. At least Samael didn't find any wounds on his body apart from a nick here and there, though his father was obviously exhausted to the very point between life and death, underfed and his limbs were threatened by frostbite.

Bodahn appeared once again as an invaluable ally since he assessed the situation with vigor of his own and started drawing a bath while Sandal assisted him with less difficult tasks. Varric barged in completely by chance, but since he had invited himself on his own so conveniently, Samael might just put him to use, so he sent him to inconspicuously snatch some food.

And so Malcolm ended up in a bath tub with just his nose and eyes above the surface and he felt the life starting to come back to his flaccid muscles. "If you're done cooking me," he remarked a few minutes later, "I'd like to hear what's happened here ever since I was taken away on my little lovely involuntary vacation." That whole time while Malcolm was gaining back his strength, Samael was sitting in a chair right by the tub, keeping his hands clasped in front of him as if in prayer, and tapping his leg. To his relief, Malcolm's voice sounded much louder and clearer when he managed to get some food into his belly and hot water seemed to have almost magical effect on his weakened body.

Since Malcolm obviously waited for some short version of what had happened in his absence, Samael decided to feed him some basic facts. "Well, I've been battling with Meredith ever since. She held me in check because of you, but with you back where you belong, she possesses no power over me anymore." Samael attempted to smile on the old man, but the smile failed since Malcolm watched him in suspiciously narrowed eyes. "Also, I'm going to become the Viscount of Kirkwall tomorrow, father," Samael added after a moment of silence and even for this big news Malcolm appeared to have no comment. "Fenris is gone and Merrill is taking her clan away from Sundermount," he continued, but that last piece of update rendered him paralyzed in pain.

"I'm sorry, son." Malcolm's hand emerged from the water and briefly patted Samael's clasped hands in compassion. As curious as it was, Malcolm really didn't come unchanged from his confinement. Too late he realized it would be his son and his son only he would leave in this world as his only legacy. Estates could be razed down, riches could be squandered, crests could be tarnished, power could be wasted on unworthy goals, but the purest Hawke blood pulsed in his son's veins and it had chance to live on in his own descendants. It took years to Malcolm Hawke to realize this and he was not sure whether he could regain his only living child's love. Moreover, if he confessed to him what had really happened in the Whispering Gorges fifteen years ago.

"You have no doubt places to be right now," Malcolm woke up from his thoughts and realized Samael would probably stay with him whole night if he didn't send him away; like into the arms of his lovely Dalish maiden. The old Hawke was everything but sentimental, but being back in Kirkwall and under protection of his son once more was taking its toll on him and he did feel as if he could sleep for a week after the ordeal he had gone through to get there. "Please check on the shape shifter if you'll have a moment," he murmured half-asleep already, "and do give him the bag I brought along with me," he sighed and then mumbled something incoherent.

"Keep an eye on him, pull him out of the bath in ten minutes and put him down to rest. I'll have the Kossiths to closely watch all entrances." Bodahn nodded to his Master's orders and bowed his head that he fully understood what was required of him. "Varric, you better go back to the party and enjoy yourself. The guest bedrooms are at your disposal as well as the rest of the estate," Hawke patted his half-tall friend's shoulder and glanced one last time at his father. With all possible haste he headed for the dungeons again; bursting into his laboratory too afraid of what awaited him in there, but hoping for the best nonetheless.

Merrill sat by the bed on a low stool, impassively watching the motionless figure in the bed, and she shivered when she felt a pair of palms gently massaging her nape. One fleet glance around the lab gave Hawke a hint that Merrill indeed obeyed his request and did her best while healing the Hero of Fereldan. Hawke's eyes then stopped on scattered empty lyrium bottles and a fresh cut on Merrill's wrist she had inflicted upon herself when she realized the lyrium wouldn't be enough to win the battle for Fawn's life.

"Is he…?" Hawke's half-question remained hanging in the air as he let her lean on him while he allowed his hands to roam over Merrill's bare throat and chest in long soothing strokes. He did make sure his question sounded casual since Merrill had made it perfectly clear that she didn't care much whether the Hero of Fereldan lived or died and Samael was thankfully already smart enough in this whole relationship area to pretend as if he rushed down here merely to see how was Merrill holding up. Moreover, he felt exceedingly conflicted regarding how he felt about Fawn right now anyway. Yes, apparently Malcolm had been ripped out of Meredith's claws thanks to Fawn's timely interference, but he did plot against Hawke not so long ago and that cost him nothing less than Merrill.

"Alive and asleep." Her eyes slowly opened and after those three words she kept silent again; clearly content with simple gazing up into Hawke's face and enjoying the pleasures his hands were offering her.

"Good," he murmured a reply, watching the unconscious elf in genuine concern. "Why don't you go to my bedroom, take a bath and wait for me there?" he suggested and concentrated his attention on Merrill again, brushing a thumb across her lips. Even though she seemed responsive to his intimacy, he was well aware the night might not end as he had hoped. "If you're not prone to… You know… Leave," he tentatively remarked, clearly referring to their earlier clash.

She watched him for a very long time, as if to test him just how long he would bear with her silence and the more Hawke seemed insecure, the more Merril's will to leave this man for good tomorrow waned. "Don't keep me waiting," she finally gave him the reply he craved and offered him her lips.

"I wouldn't dare," he claimed them with a long tender kiss, finding himself unwilling to part with her if only for a few minutes. She gave him a smile before she left, he returned it, but Hawke's faded once he was left alone with Fawn who looked simply terrible.

Mahariel lye on his side due to the arrow wound he had sustained, facing Hawke, his arms and head were in rather unnatural position, and a white sheet was tightened around his waistline, leaving his bruised torso bare. Merrill must have washed him as well since his skin was clean and gained a bit healthier color, and his long silverish hair was damp and neatly combed backward, spreading over the pillow. Ironically enough, the areas of Fawn's intact fair pale skin even emphasized the horribly looking bruises and outlines of bones beneath the thin skin indicating just how much the elf must had suffered ever since he decided to set off to a journey to seek out Hawke's father and bring him back to his son. Samael hissed in compassion when his fingers carefully circled the freshly mended wound on Fawn's back, coming from an arrow probably as Hawke concluded. The whole area was inflamed and contused and Hawke could only guess in what horrid state the wound had been before Merrill's intervention since it looked utmost severely even now.

Trying to sort out his thoughts, still unsure whether Fawn would survive this, Hawke paced around the lab for a while with his head in palms, and when he tiptoed back to the bed with an extra blanket and furs in his hands, he realized to his astonishment that Fawn had been obviously watching him for some time now.

"Hello Hawke," he attempted to smile his notorious crooked sneer since the mighty Champion stood there with several covers in his hands, looking silly. "But you look terrible, my friend," he remarked on Hawke's gaunt visage; the heritage of this appalling night.

"_I_ look terrible? Have you _seen_ yourself?" Samael burst into a hysterical laughter that seemed to have no end. When he finally calmed down, with just a few more chuckles, he covered Fawn's body with his blanket, threw the furs all over the bed, and his face lost any signs of laughter just as quickly as he had burst into it. "First things first," Hawke poked a worn out knapsack lying on the floor with his boot that Fawn hadn't noticed yet. "My father asked me to deliver this to you as soon as possible," he promptly explained when he followed Fawn's gaze and realized he no doubt wondered what was in the valise he'd brought with him. "He insisted on coming on his own, but—" Hawke embarrassedly grinned and shrugged.

"But you'd rather keep him in bed to rest; I understand," Fawn nodded and watched as Hawke untied the leather laces and ceremonially pulled out the blade of Brecilian Forest; the very same sword Fawn had reluctantly given Malcolm in the Swan's Swamp outskirts for safe-keeping.

"Beautiful piece…" Hawke inadvertently murmured when he swung the blade through the air several times; then pointed it upward with his arm fully outstretched, and admired the exceptional blade from all angles; it was as straight as a ramrod, sharp as a razor and cruel like forgiveness from a sworn enemy. Hawke voraciously fenced an invisible enemy with the sword, bowed in irony to his audience, and laid the sword into Fawn's lap with an elegant obeisance. "What's in the bag apart from the sword I do not know, but father said he had nothing on him when he left the prison, so I believe everything inside is yours. Do with it as you will." Samael watched the elf for a while, his face then suddenly twisted into a pained expression as he kneeled by the bed and took Fawn's pale hand into both his palms in reverence.

"You're not asking me to marry you, are you?" Fawn gave the young man a faint smile and watched as Samael's head slowly bowed down until it touched the hand that had saved his father from a certain death.

"Anything you want; anything you would require of me as a payment for your deed, you shall have." Trembling with emotion, yet ardent words were spoken and Fawn's smile just broadened when he lifted his other hand with difficulty and placed it upon Hawke's head. Sometimes Fawn forgot how immensely old he was since the life of the true Elvhenan lingered within him still, but this young shemlen and his cheekiness as well as devotion was simply disarming. Not to mention that gratitude of the Champion of Kirkwall as well as the Viscount might be useful one day.

"I hear your pledge and I shall treasure it and remember it," Mahariel solemnly replied and lifted Hawke's head by his chin only to realize the human had tears standing in his eyes and was ashamed of them no less. "Now go," Fawn pretended as if he hadn't seen anything and sent him away, huddling beneath the blanket and grimacing when the barely mended wound on his shoulder blade reminded him he was far from healed.

"Really? Don't you need something? Anything? How about—" Hawke started fussing around the elf, realizing only now the laboratory was just a miserable substitute for where Fawn should have been resting in the first place.

"Sleep. I feel as if I could sleep for a week," Fawn interrupted the young babbling man and closed his eyes. "With no snow in sight, thank you very much," he muttered with irony only he possessed, sighed, and immediately fell asleep. Hawke watched over the sleeping elf for a while, making sure the fireplace was well stocked and emanated warmth, and considering whether Fawn could be left alone or rather not, but then he reminded himself all entrances were guarded by vigilant Kossith warriors that would keep any intruder out, and, more importantly, Anders in. Because once the mage realized his dearest Maurella was no longer among the living as well as all of their followers who were taken care of by Danarius' men, he could easily become a much severe threat to Hawke's plan than he already posed. The Champion had him precisely where he needed him to be at the moment; locked under his direct supervision, and pleasingly cut off from any information, therefore Anders was free to spend this one last night believing that he would change the course of history tomorrow when Chantry debris lie in the burning streets of Kirkwall and blood of the Templars and magic-haters colored the white stones of Hightown.

"Sleep, my friend," Hawke whispered merely to himself when he was on his way out and he glanced one last time at the peacefully sleeping Hero of Fereldan. The black ring on his finger glowed with heat and reminded him he was already sorely missed someplace else, so he walked through the finally quiet mansion as the majority of nobles had gone home and only the most depraved lechers had obviously moved the party into the Blooming Rose; much to Varric's disappointment, because the Kossith guardians very eloquently prevented him from leaving the estate along with the others. When Samael was greeted in his bedroom by Merrill who wore nothing but the black ring Hawke had given her, Samael realized that whatever would happen in the morning, he'd always desire to be wherever that woman was and nowhere else.

oOo

Fawn was roused from his sleep of the dead a few hours later and at first he felt completely disoriented and panic stricken. For a few dreadful moments his tired brains kept generating an illusion that he was on the run still – hiding in the worst boozers during the shortening days along with an old man who required his assistance all the time since his powers were significantly diminished and thus his vision was heavily damaged most of the time, only to shape shift into a stallion at each twilight and run for their lives south to Kirkwall, carrying the old mage on his back like an inferior mule. This had been repeating day after day; as they were barely sleeping, eating even less, and Fawn was constantly trapped in a horse form since Malcolm wouldn't had walked a single mile, let alone walk all the way to Kirkwall. Even now, in safety of the Hawke estate, Fawn was chased in his dreams through the Northern wastelands by the Templars who must had come from the darkest depths of the Fade itself since they rode yellow-eyed dragons and somehow even a couple of darkspawn managed to join their little motley party.

Winking, Fawn stirred beneath the blanket, but immediately he wished he didn't. Every single muscle within his body was sore and he was warm; even hot as he realized when he languidly brushed the beads of sweat off his forehead. The muscles of his legs were uncontrollably contracting, he felt dizzy and his eyes hurt and burnt when he gave them such a simple order as to look at the table by the bed that was lit up with a few tall candles and where a splendid tray with various refreshments was set along with a bottle of wine and a kettle of tea. Since Fawn's head was spinning whenever he attempted to lift it and take a good look around him, it seemed beyond possible to snatch something from the tray. Pushing the pain away and reveling in the air into his lungs with deep steady breaths, Fawn attempted to reach at least for something to drink, but his elegant fingers nothing but brushed against the porcelain kettle and the pain shooting from the back wound paralyzed him. Nothing but an agonized groaning was audible in the laboratory for long minutes and only then Fawn slowly managed to pull his reaching arm back to his chest like a wounded animal nurses its broken limb. It was now sadly evident that he would indeed not be able to reach anything from the table, so he just fixed his eyes on it with a bestial expression on his face, trying to overcome the pain that warped his reality. Soon his eyelids fluttered in exhaustion, but before his head could helplessly slide down off the pillow, a warm tanned hand caught it and gently placed it into the dimple in the pillow. The same hand then slowly uplifted Fawn's head, supporting it by the scruff in the position, and a pleasing jasmine aroma then filled Fawn's nostrils.

"Drink," a distant voice commanded and Fawn considered it very gratifying to leave his eyes closed for now and simply obey whatever the voice demanded from him. Herbal tea warmed his innards as it traveled down his throat into the belly and it left a bitter flavor on his tongue, which was not entirely unpleasant, but strange still. He felt his head falling down into what seemed to be a bottomless well, so it surprised him when he felt a soft pillow beneath his cheek again. Even this uncomplicated movement knocked him down into the arms of dizziness again, but it eased off soon enough, and Fawn opened his eyes to finally look at his caretaker. Not a muscle moved within his face, nor a sound of surprise escaped his mouth, when he realized who it was sitting on the stool by his bed, spinning the empty tea cup in his nimble fingers and roguishly smirking at him. Oh yes, Fawn would have recognized those two cat-like golden eyes anywhere and anytime, and if the Death decided to take this form right before she claimed him, Mahariel was willing to let it take him then and end it all.

"Are you here to kill me?" Fawn asked the question in a matter of fact manner, watching the man with gleaming eyes and a reconciled smile on his lips.

"It would be rather absurd to help you drink your tea only to sink my blades into your tender flesh a moment later; don't you think my dear Warden?" Zevran set the cup he was playing with down on the table again and lazily kicked the stool even closer to the bed, lengthily settling down again.

"That's not really answering my question, is it?" Fawn would like to at least sit up in the bed, since he was definitely not able to stand up to face the Crow, but all his body allowed him to do at the moment was to lie there, vulnerable and naïve like a child, and resignedly watch the man who had his life and death in his hands once more.

"No. I suppose it's not." Zevran averted his gaze from Fawn's bloodless face that didn't lose any of its pale beauty and noble features even now. It appeared Zevran was now interested in thorough examination of Fawn's figure hidden beneath the blanket, as if he was musing whether a blade or two could have been hidden there. "But to answer your question," Zevran laughed his melodic laughter and looked at Mahariel again, "no - I'm not here to kill you," he quietly finished his statement. "I'm here to take care of you."

"Why?" Fawn pointed out the obvious question when he considered Zevran's reason to be there from all possible angles and it always turned out the Crow was entitled to kill him the moment he had found him; lying helpless in the bed no less. "Why, Zevran?" Fawn managed to support himself on the elbow when he realized he needed to hear a clear response to his question.

"Zevran, Zevran, Zevran…" the Crow absently repeated his own name with his eyes closed in pained bliss. "I used to love whenever you said my name. You might have been the only one who ever dared to uncover who I really am. Who ever cared enough to use my real name. You shouted it during the vicious battles, you whispered it every night into my ear and you pronounced it in scorn the day you framed me and left me to rot behind the walls of Amaranthine," he mercilessly continued and watched Fawn as he winced when the shadows of his treachery finally caught up with him.

"So this is why you're here," Fawn quietly answered his own question. "To torment me," he explained when Zevran's face seemed confused. "You shouldn't have bothered then. There is not a day I wouldn't think about you. Not a single day I would feel… free of you," he almost inaudibly confessed and their eyes briefly locked in sudden silence. Not reacting in any way to Fawn's unexpected penance, the Crow poured yet another cup of tea, but filling only a half of the cup this time, since he pulled out a little flask of bright red liquid somewhere from his backpack and topped up the cup with it.

"Drink it," he handed the resulting concoction over to the Hero of Fereldan who to his deepest surprise immediately obeyed and emptied the cup with several long thirsty gulps. Wasn't he afraid; not the slightest bit, that it was poisoned? One simply couldn't accept a drink of an unknown origin from an Antivan Crow and drink it without a question!? It was as if Mahariel reckoned on Zevran trying to poison him, but simply didn't care about it! "It was a rather potent regeneration remedy," Zevran cautiously stated even though no one asked.

"All right," Fawn carelessly shrugged, since he was feeling better and stronger instead of, well, dropping dead in gruesome spasms. Zevran obviously found that nonchalance unnerving as well as slightly offensive at the same time.

"Sooo," Zevran prolonged the word in pretended frolicsome ignorance, "as the priestess so famously said to the handsome actor: What now?" His sneer then vanished and Fawn realized he had seen once already the expression which settled on Crow's face now. Yes indeed. It was the day when Talisien paid them a visit at twilight and right before the fray broke out; he tried to sway Zevran on his side and claim back his loyalty to the Crows. Fawn remembered it as if it had happened yesterday. The perfidious Crow circling around his Zevran who stood there with his head hanging and arms loose by his sides, listening to venomous words in his ears, promises of restored glory and fame for elimination of the greatest threat to Loghain's plans to seize the throne. Fawn told him he loved him no matter what he did; much to the amusement of the murderers all around the arcane warrior. Did he really mean it? Nah, Fawn didn't remember anymore, but he did remember Zevran unsheathing his needle-like blades and throwing them at the Crows lurking and giggling right behind Fawn's back. Needless to say that Talisien understood very promptly after that where Zevran's loyalties lie.

"Bring me the knapsack." It was the time to test Zevran's remedy, and surprisingly Fawn was really able to sit up in the bed, even though with a lot of hissing in pain that twisted his appealing facial features. Zevran watched his endeavor with a grave expression on his face and once Fawn noticed his inquiring gaze, he reached for the blanket to cover his beaten body in shame. Neither of them spoke then for a while; Fawn mortified for his weakness, Zevran upset about Fawn's wretched state and tortured by guilt that he had contributed to it, even though Fawn didn't seem to blame him for whatever happened in Swan's Swamp. "I believe this is yours," Fawn mustered his strengths to look straightforward into the golden eyes as he held out a thin package loosely wrapped in a piece of pliant leather toward Zevran.

A needle-like blade Fawn had stolen from the Crow upon their separation in the north seemed just as glorious and deathly when Zevran had last seen it. Now he reached for it; hesitant, weighting it in his hand, only to dexterously flip it into the other one a moment later. Zevran unsheathed its twin, swinging them both in pleasure and his arms were complete again. Watching the Crow and his keen actions with melancholy, Fawn wished for solitude and quiet. The shivers claimed his weakened body again and he tardily lye down again, more like let himself fall down on his stomach, lazily tugging on the furs around him to cover himself. It was a tough job with only one arm available, since the other one seemed paralyzed by the back wound, but Fawn had stopped all his endeavor once he felt the cold tip of a needle blade tracing his spine in a dance that easily could have been Fawn's last one.

"Were you waiting this entire time for me to turn my back to you?" Fawn droned a colorless question, attempting to sound just as disinterested as he thought he was. "All right, awkward silence for the condemned person it is then," he continued when nothing but a freezing blade on his skin was the answer. He would never, ever admit to himself or anyone else that what was Zevran doing he considered very much voluptuous and an overture for a much more intimate pastimes.

"Tsk, tsk, once you had a faith in me, my dear Warden…" Zevran's smooth-tongued words echoed in Fawn's ear and immediately afterwards he felt warm nimble fingers exploring his back, cautiously brushing against the bruises, avoiding the blackened area of his arrow wound.

"I had faith in you well enough, my lover," Fawn muttered and he failed to hide the aroused undertones in his voice. "Faith that you will one day stab me in my back," he added a cruel remark and just like that the dangerous game of cold steel and warm fingers was over. Fawn turned over in the bed and Zevran reacted all too late to hide the pained expression Fawn's words had caused. Giving him no time to recuperate, even tired of this game, Fawn reached for Zevran's hand holding the blade and he positioned it right against his heart which was as much eloquent gesture to finish what he'd come here for as it ever could get. Zevran watched the blade hovering over the pale skin and Fawn let go of his hand once he was sure the Crow's hand would figure out on its own what to do next with a blade and a beating heart of a man who had betrayed him. Ever time Fawn's chest heaved up as he kept drawing shallow quickened breaths, the tip of Crow's blade buried a tiny bit into the skin; just enough to leave scarlet welt on it, yet not enough to actually pierce the skin.

Resolve was waxing and fading in turns within Crow's eyes like a tide as he was clearly arguing with his need for vengeance, but also under the destructive influence of his ex-lover, and even when all his fibers screamed at him to man-up and finally end the agony, he set the blade aside and whispered a tiny dismissive, "No," right before he leaned down with the tranquility of a man who knew his goal was within an arm's reach. Staring into the golden eyes that spoke of promise to end it all, but somehow failed to keep that promise so far, Fawn let his fingers wander about Crow's face, copying the curves of his black tattoos, brushing against the full lips he was once mad about, and following the thick stream of his hair that smelled of hot bright Antivan sun. Since there was nothing Zevran ever craved more during the last year against his better judgment, he happily let it happen and groaned in pleasure long forgotten when Fawn's lips grazed their way up his throat to find their way to Zevran's and claim them just as possessively as he used to.

But just like that, the bitter-sweet moment was gone, the elves parted and Zevran's golden eyes darkened as he realized it was not in his power to forgive and forget. "Rest now, my Warden," he whispered a hoarse farewell. "Look for me tomorrow," he confirmed what Fawn had guessed already – tomorrow was the big day they would finally settle things between them.

"Zevran," Fawn stopped the Crow, "what of Hawke?" he asked, hoping that the Champion was no longer the object of Crow's attention.

"One simply must admire his style," Zevran's velvet voice casually replied as he was sheathing the blades to their place. "Too bad he has to die," the Crow harshly continued with a smug on his face, deliberately overlooking the shock on Fawn's face.

"I can't believe you're answering to the whips of your Antivan masters as you once were, Zevran," Fawn uttered in scorn; only too aware his words would cut deep into the Crow.

"You know the rules, my dear Warden!" Just as expected, the vain Crow flared up immediately as he stalked back to the bed to face the sarcastic elf. "The contract between the Antivan Crows and their customer is bound by blood and I'm bound with my life to carry the deed or die trying and pass my duty on to one of my brothers or sisters!"

"You can disobey," Fawn calmly remarked, watching the fuming Crow. "It wouldn't be the first time after all, I daresay," Fawn scoffed at the Crow and pushed him past the bearable point.

"Yes, you would know _all_ about that, Warden, wouldn't you?!" he hissed at him. "The only business I ever left unfinished that I'm not allowed to forget about! Rest now, mon amour. Rest while you can!" he spluttered at the elf who'd been watching him in silence. "We shall see tomorrow where the loyalties of the both of us lie!" With his last words he rushed toward the door, clearly intending to dramatically storm out just as his fierce-tempered and histrionic temperament commanded him to, if only he wasn't stopped yet again by quiet, most unexpected words.

"He'll kill you, Zevran," the voice said and the Crow halted and listened, clearly puzzled. He wanted to argue, mock the doomsayer, ridicule the assumption that anyone would be able to take on the mighty Zevran Aranai of the Antivan Crows, but Fawn obviously meant what he had said mortally seriously. There was no mockery behind his words, no hidden insinuations at all; it was merely a presage of what would happen tomorrow if Zevran refused to abandon the contract.

"Then you'll be finally able to tell without any doubt tomorrow whether the man you once claimed to love is dead or alive." Zevran gave him a long somber gaze before he vanished into the shadows, leaving the Hero of Fereldan alone with his thoughts.

oOo

"I still can't believe they're back," Merrill wriggled in a tub filled with hot water and bubbles so vigorously that the water splashed all around.

"I still can't believe everything what's happened tonight," Hawke reacted merely to his own thoughts than to what Merrill had said as he tightened his embrace around the fidgeting body within his arms. His fingers then traced the ugly slash on Merrill's arm which she got during her poorly done escape. Since she wasted a great deal of her powers for Fawn and also for Malcolm, she had none left for herself, though seeing Hawke tending to her wound with his eyebrows knitting in disapproval while muttering hushed curses regarding her general clumsiness was quite pleasing.

"Have you checked on them?" she asked a languid question and started soaping Hawke's arm; giggling when the wet arm hair mixed with white soap bubbles created some funny patterns.

"Both seemed to be very exhausted, but well enough, considering what they've been through." Hawke cleared away the hair off Merrill's nape and let his tongue and lips to play there a little; if nothing else, at least the elf would stop sniggering about such mundane thing as wet arm hair. It didn't take long before Merrill, now completely serious, turned over in the tub and hungrily found Hawke's lips with hers. Before she knew it, Samael was carrying her toward the bed with her legs tightly circling his waist. There was no point in pretending as if either of them wouldn't think about this the whole evening. He was about to crash them both between the soft sheets, but she suddenly broke the kiss and drew a little away from him, clearly up to something.

"Wait," she whispered to him and made him to drop her down on her feet. Not breaking their eye-contact Merrill sauntered toward the dresser, enjoying to see Hawke hungrily eyeing up her body glistening with water. His left eyebrow arched when she slowly pulled out of the dresser a dark blue strip of fabric he'd seen before and also Hawke's secret ceremonial knife whose purpose knew only two souls in the world and they were both present in this room at the moment.

Puckering his brows and very much perplexed by Merrill's actions, Hawke remained standing where he was, watching as she approached him. The knife changed hands while Merrill kept the piece of fabric for herself and they both soon lost track of how long they'd been standing there, touching each other in profound silence, since both of them knew the presence of the other one was not to be taken for granted and since tomorrow, it would be forbidden for good. When Merrill attempted to tie the fabric around his head as a blindfold, suddenly it dawned to Hawke what it was she was trying to accomplish here – Merrill was recreating their first night spent together. Just as for the first time, Hawke caught her hands before she could blindfold him, examining closely her excited face and darkened eyes. And just as before, Hawke then let her hands to slip out of his grasp and a mischievous smile on the face of his temptress was the last thing he saw.

Suddenly Merrill was nowhere to be heard or found and Samael realized his breath had quickened when he stood there, vulnerable and alone. He shivered when he felt a cold fingertip, then a whole palm tracing the old diagonal scar that ran across his chest. Several times Hawke felt the coldness of a blade on his feverish skin, only to be replaced by warm lips that obviously decided to taste him at the most surprising areas. Sometime in the middle of this game, time had lost its meaning as Hawke became nothing but a creature full of frustrated desires that would answer to its animalistic needs and nothing else. Ripping off the blindfold when the threshold was reached, Hawke growled a guttural sound that would have scared everyone but Merrill who stood right in front of him, challenging him in silence to do whatever he had to do.

With restrain Samael didn't even know he possessed, he made that single step forward that parted him from the mistress of his mind, searching her eyes for something that had been always there. He lifted her chin and brought his lips down to hers. He teased her, keeping the kisses short and dispassionate, until she whimpered with desire and clawed her fingers into his flesh to convince him to equally respond to her lust. He let her claim his lips, softly opening his mouth to grant her access she craved, and he felt her straining up to him with all her being. Just to feel the utter power over another being, that was feeling Hawke would have died for many times over. But now – Samael wanted to play a wicked game.

He steered her toward the bed, so they were both facing it, but Hawke very malevolently stopped her from falling into it and drag him along. He chose this moment to murmur into her ear, "Wait for me here, my pet. Don't you dare lying down," and then he was gone. Merrill stood there obediently at first, then she started pacing around the bed, glancing about the room in impatience, only to rush back to the exact spot Hawke had left her on. Only when Hawke heard frustrated moans and soft calls of his name, he decided it was the time to come back and finish what they'd started.

Merrill was standing by the bed, facing it and visibly quivering now, no doubt wondering where her lover had gone. She had not heard him, had not seen him, he was suddenly simply there again, turning her around and kissing her deeply, passionately, tearing down the cold barrier between them. He grasped her by shoulders and whirled her around, shoving her onto the bed. Caught by surprise and no longer the mistress of her own actions or senses, Merrill just had time to catch herself on outstretched arms when Samael slammed right into her. He buried his full length in her, letting out a long savage groan of pleasure, not even realizing that in that one single thrust Merrill started to scream, but he yanked her head back by her hair, softly whispering, "Silence!" Merrill did clamp her jaws immediately, but Hawke made sure even now whimpers escaped her mouth now and then. She took him completely off guard when she deviously waited for his grasp on her to loosen a little, then she escaped from his reach with a lithe elegance, waiting in suspense for his reaction while shredding the bed sheets with her sharp fingernails.

Needless to say Hawke pounced on her with one leap, warped by her disobedience, however playful it was. They wrestled with each other for the dominance over one another and Merrill cried out a victorious shout when she fought her way on top and pinned Hawke's arms between the shreds of fabric. Since she won, however her victory was merely tolerated, he suddenly lay there quiet, motionless, feeling her hot excited breaths on his cheek. He winced and tilted his head back when she shifted and let them merge into one being again, watching closely his face as it slowly went forth again to look at her.

Although Hawke had forbade himself to think about anything even distantly related to their morning separation, he couldn't push this fact away or lock it into a chest and bring it up in the morning. After all, Merrill was everything that he had ever dreamed of; powerful, passionate, demanding, but absolutely in tune with every nuance of him. She tolerated his many, many character flaws; some of them she even admired, and she had proven her loyalty and devotion more times than Hawke could have counted. Even after hours of lovemaking and intimate conversations in between, their mutual frustration was so huge that there was no time for refined games anymore. The bed was soon a shambles, sheets knotted and soaked with sweat and whole room looked as if a storm had raged right through. They simply consumed each other, again and again, until dawn broke, and they greeted the morning feeling just as restless as they were before.

They didn't utter a word when they walked together through the ever still dusky mansion. Just as if the same puppeteer was controlling them, they stopped by the front door as if that was the ultimate borderline upon which their paths were supposed to part. There was really nothing left to say. Devastated, Merrill wordlessly curled up against the warm flesh of her lover, painfully aware that this would be no more than a fleeting memory from now on. Half-blind with tears, she reached for the door handle, but just as she managed to open the door a crack, Hawke leaned on it with his full weight in panic, so it slammed close again and Merrill found herself trapped within his arms leaning on the door now.

"Samael, don't make this harder than it is," she pleaded with him and stroked his frowning forehead.

"Don't go!" he heard himself beseeching her not to leave him. "You don't have to go, Merrill!" he kept on convincing her, but even he was able to hear how childishly selfish he sounded.

"How could you ever trust me again if I break my oath now and stay here? How could you… love me?" she gently tried to explain like hundred times before and watched as his face gained an expression she hadn't seen there for years. He knew just all too well what oath she spoke of. The oath every Keeper swears to protect the clan and serve the clan and nothing but the clan for the rest of one's life. Always the bloody elves in his way! Oh, how he wished they would simply ceased to be! "Ma vhenan…" she tried to bring him back to the reality, but he dodged her hand this time.

"Fuck the clan!" Hawke grasped her by her shoulders, shaking her as if that had ever helped him before. "Fuck the elves, fuck the clan and definitely fuck some fucking oath!" His eyes blazed with the fire of a battle he had lost already. Realizing it, he let go of her and stepped backwards. "I…" he massaged his pulsing temples, "this is silly," he sighed and stole a glance at Merrill. "I don't want to argue," he shook his head and let her snuggle against him again. At this point Samael found himself unable to postpone that which was inevitable, so he pressed one last kiss on Merrill's forehead, searching her eyes afterward in twisted curiosity whether the same pain tearing him apart was visible in them as well. Perversely satisfied when it indeed was, he yanked the front door open and stepped aside. "Farewell, Merrill of the Dalish," he heard himself saying though he had no idea where that reasonable voice came from.

"Farewell, Samael," she somehow managed to reply. "Please tell me we'll meet again someday," she begged him and her eyes shone in something Hawke thought he had lost years ago – hope.

"I'm afraid I cannot tell you that," Hawke let his head hanging and wished she would… just go. Go if she wanted to. Go and never looked back.

She reached for his hand and slowly brought it up against her cheek. "Then lie to me," she whispered right before their lips met in one last ultimate kiss. "Close your eyes…" Hawke felt her soft breath in his ear when he did what she commanded him to do. When Hawke opened them, he was alone. She was gone and she took a piece of him away along with her. Closing the door, Hawke leaned on it with his back, then he collapsed down and hid his pain from the rest of the world behind the palms.

"How could I ever possibly redeem what I've done to those two beings?" Fawn kept asking himself over and over again when he secretly witnessed the separation of a man and a woman who loved each other. Hawke's despair and helpless sobs echoed in his ears even long time after he'd returned to his bed, leaving Hawke where he was because there was nothing Fawn could have said or done that would make this easier or even right. And so they both sat alone with their heads in palms, searching for a solution that never existed.


	23. Chapter 23

After escaping the Blight, the Hawke family sailed north across the Waking Sea lashed by terrible storms. They had spent two weeks in that dark hold packed in with the fearful and the desperate. And then they saw it: Kirkwall – the city of chains. Long ago it was a part of the Tevinter Imperium with slaves coming from far and wide working the quarries. But then, Kirkwall became a free city, if one could decide to use the word _free_ loosely. Sailing through the black cliffs, Hawke's eyes saw what all the slaves had seen before him: the Gallows. They were as grim, silent, and hard as the bones of the earth itself.

Not at any point of his stay in Kirkwall had Samael ever enjoyed walking within those oppressive walls, even though the slaves and their screams were long gone by now. Even then, they were replaced by the screams of others – the mages. He had not enjoyed it when he was a tattered faceless lowlife from Fereldan, scraping by along with his mother and sister, or when he was an unimportant scoundrel working for Red Irons and making a name for himself, or when he became the crownless king of the lyrium underground, and not even when he was lifted up among the nobles thanks to Meredith and her influence. Apparently, not even becoming the Viscount would change Hawke's impression regarding that wretched place of impenetrable walls, wind howling through the endless corridors and omnipresent feelings that something nasty was stalking the Gallows along with the quiet mages with downcast eyes and the ceaselessly watchful Templars.

"How did it come to this?" Hawke kept whispering to himself when, of all possible places he could have chosen to spend the remaining hours before the coronation, he chose an abandoned wing of the Gallows; the very same one where Alrik had been held in separation, so he would not corrupt others with his depravity and rabble-rousing. "I wonder, is this a sign that I should stay in Kirkwall or leave it? I can never tell," he continued his soliloquy and tightened the cape around his body even though he was not physically cold. Waiting for his prisoner who had yet to wake up from a slight case of innocuous poisoning, Hawke went in his thoughts back to the morning that was no less strenuous and grievous than the previous night had been.

Samael had remained sitting by the front door of his estate in early morning after Merrill had disappeared from his life, tearing him asunder as well as herself with keeping the oath that was sworn in her stead. Consumed by his pain that was selfish just as it was heart-rending to behold, he noticed his father approaching him only right before he sat down by his side in sympathetic silence.

"She gone?" Malcolm asked diplomatically once he realized it was expected of him to actually say something.

"Yes," a laconic answer came from the younger Hawke. "For good," he added and turned away from his father to hide his sorrow.

"Want to talk about it?" Malcolm tried again when his first attempt for conversation failed.

"No," came the terse reply. The Hawkes seemed to reach an impasse and use up entirely the only topic Samael was interested in right now.

"Want me to leave you alone, son?" Malcolm patted his own lank shanks, clearly intending to go about his business then.

"No!" Samael jerked and needlessly reached for his father's arm to stop him, even though Malcolm wasn't going anywhere yet.

"All right. How about we move the discussion elsewhere?" Malcolm nudged his son's shoulder with his own, and only then he noticed and stared in disbelief at Samael's pale hand laced with thick black veins that looked as if his son had stolen it from a dead man. Leaving the mystery of his son's cadaveric hand alone for now, the old mage slowly stood up and held out a hand toward his son. "Let's go to the kitchen. I'll whip you up some breakfast, we eat, we talk," he lured his son who actually conjured a faint smile on his face after that proposal.

"_Whip me up something_, is it now?" Samael shook his head, hiding the smile as he reached for the offered hand. "Since when exactly do you _whip up_ anything, I wonder?" he kept grouching on their way to the kitchen.

"Tut-tut-tut, you don't remember, do you, lad?" Malcolm heartily laughed when he steered his son toward the chair and theatrically attempted to figure out what exactly an apron was for and where to attach it.

"No, I most certainly do not remember and I think that comes around your waist," Samael instructed the old man with all seriousness he could have mustered which was never much anyway.

"I used to cook dinners for you lot all the time!" Malcolm retorted in pretended wounded vanity and blinked at his son as if he wasn't supposed to take that seriously much. Upon mentioning the rest of Hawke family who were all dead by now, Samael's eyes darkened and Malcolm fell silent as well. Soon enough, a plate with steaming eggs and sizzling bacon appeared in front of the taciturn young man who after a long and deep contemplation reached the realization that he was hungry like he'd never been before in his life. Watching his son wolfing down the breakfast with mild amusement, Malcolm ate as well, but only moderately, since he'd been nothing but eating ever since he returned among the living, as he stoically called his homecoming.

"Samael, there's something I need to tell you, my son," Malcolm cautiously stated when Samael gulped down a jug of beer to wash down the eggs. "There's something you don't know. Something you _need_ to know before we—" suddenly he paused and started musing about how was his son imagining their future anyway? Did he count on Malcolm staying with him? Well, if yes, he would have spurned the idea once he heard what it was Malcolm wanted to share with him.

"Before we what, father?" Something in Malcolm's voice caught Samael's immediate attention and tickled his ability to sense yet another shit storm coming his way. "Father," Samael quietly addressed the old man who seemed at a loss, "what do I _need_ to know so urgently?" he pushed the chair off the table and slowly rose up; tense, suspicious, and beyond the reasonable state of mind.

"Sit down," Malcolm replied with his voice hoarse and his face looking as if he had just aged fifty years. "I'll tell you everything," he quietly confirmed and Samael more like collapsed back into his seat, expecting nothing but bad news.

Thirty minutes later, Samael stormed out of the kitchen, completely out of his mind as he rushed by the confused butler up the stairs, chuckling only a little in comparison with how hysterically he had been laughing into Malcolm's anguished face once his father revealed what he had been doing all those years Samael had considered him dead along with his mother and siblings, and even more importantly why he had left the family in the first place. Having really absolutely nothing to do at the Hawke estate anymore, Samael grabbed the nearest bagged apparel meant for the coronation and threw it over the bed. Tearing off his comfortable home clothing, Hawke kept crushing curses between his teeth with every piece of fabric he tossed around on the floor, kicking it there like a deranged person. A few minutes later, the unchained lunacy was replaced with a numb stiffness. Fawn was the one to find Hawke like this. However difficult it was, the elf actually managed to get Hawke talking and what became like a brief "thank you for saving my hide" visit turned into a 2-hour long war council. When the two conspirators strolled down the stairs with their heads still near each other as they were tuning last details, Malcolm bashfully rose from an armchair in the main hall where he had seated himself in case his son would attempt to avoid him.

"Fawn, one last thing." Samael did hell of a job while ignoring his father as he held up a closed fist toward the elf. "Just in case anything goes wrong today…" he didn't finish the thought since he eloquently fell silent instead and passed a little scroll to the elf.

"What could _possibly_ go wrong?" Fawn sneered and inadvertently used Varric's favorite line, hiding the scroll within his attire worthy of a prince that Hawke provided him with.

"Samael…" Malcolm failed to remain calm and patient as he had promised to himself.

"Kithshok," Maraas made a rather dramatic entrée so unlike to him, approaching his Master and ignoring his father. "The prisoner is being held captive at the appointed place. We've fulfilled your orders." The Kossith warrior bowed his head and placed his set fist across his heart.

"Well-done," Samael's eyes widened in keen interest as he patted the bulking shoulder; clearly absent-minded. "Well-done indeed," he rewarded the warrior with a nod. "You know what needs to be done now," his eyes flashed with something indecipherable and Maraas then left without the slightest assent that he had indeed understood what was expected of him next.

"Samael," Malcolm tried again and his voice strengthened with uncertain panicked undertones, "I only told you because I'm hoping to start anew with you. No more pretenses, no more lies, no more made up stories for children for fuck's sake!" he started explaining with strengthening voice even though Samael didn't even look at him. "Look at me, damn you, when I'm talking to you!" Malcolm finally gave up his meek façade as he burst out shouting before a bout of coughing twisted his body.

"I no longer wonder where you've got your refined talent for choosing the right words at the right times from, Samael," Fawn remarked in amusement when he watched both Hawkes sizing each other up and circling around one another like dogs around a bone neither of them really wanted.

"Shut up, Fawn!" both Hawkes yelled the scoffer silent at the same time and he then graciously seated himself on the sofa since his part in this apparent domestic violence was finished.

"My son—"

"Father—"

Two stubborn Hawkes seemed to have a problem even with who would yell at the other one first, but for now the elder one peevishly waved his hand as if he was ready to whatever his only son had to say. And the only son surprised him indeed.

"Father, look, I don't want to argue." Samael gave it a try to be reasonable at least for once. "I've lost someone today who was very precious to me. You and Fawn just returned last night half-dead, Meredith hasn't shown up at the wedding reception last night which is just as bad as if she declared an Exalted March against the Hawke estate, the coronation itself will be a matter of luck until the very last second due to several individuals that have spent the night sharpening their blades with my name on it, and my staying or leaving this city still stand upon a precipice of uncertainty." He enumerated it all in one breath; genuinely hoping his father would follow his example and decide to abandon their quarrel. "As you can see, I've really no time to deal with the only person I'd expect to actually _be_ on my side right now." Malcolm observed his son for a while in silence after that speech, and of course his silence almost drove the younger man mad.

"You've changed," Malcolm quietly remarked in surprise that could have been easily taken the wrong way.

"We all have, I suspect. We all had to." Samael's craggy face darkened when he watched his father for a while, then threw a heavy black cape over his shoulders which really in any way did not match the classy coronation attire and headed outside. He hesitated with his hands already on door handles, as if deciding whether to do something or not. "Fawn," he quietly addressed the elf without turning back, "please do share our plan with my father. If he wishes to be a part of it, that is," he threw in a jibe and left the estate without any other word.

oOo

Something stirred within the shadows of a cell in an abandoned Gallows wing. For next few moments only water trickling down the walls was hearable again, but a hoarse moan confirmed that the prisoner had awakened indeed.

"What… How… Where am I?" a desperate voice asked the darkness when a black silhouette of a man torpidly rose from a bunk and made a few steps toward the bars. Shaking them, the man let out a panicked moan, then leaned his head against them in resignation as if he was overcoming queasiness.

"More important than how and where is _why_." A faceless voice entered the silence and the prisoner let go of the bars at once, stumbling backwards in fright.

"Hawke…" he whispered in dismay as if he was even a little relieved that it was only the Champion of Kirkwall present and he would no doubt explained and let him out. "What's this? What does it mean? Why am I here? I remember walking back to the Gallows from the wedding reception and then—" the prisoner rubbed his forehead with both palms as if the memory lingered.

"Then you were shot with a poisoned Qunari dart and taken here. No inconvenient witnesses, no alarms, no nothing. No one knows you're here but me." The Champion obviously decided to fill in the blank spots for the unfortunate prisoner and he made it perfectly clear that Cullen being imprisoned was precisely his plan; not a coincidence as the unfortunate Templar had hoped.

"But why? _Why_? What have I ever done to you to treat me such?!" The prisoner howled an accusation and launched against the bars, clawing his fingers in between. The poor Cullen really seemed to be desperately searching the most inward depths of his consciousness to find the precise moment when he had unknowingly crossed Hawke's plans which would no doubt lead him here into this waking nightmare.

"Oh, nothing bad, I trust." Samael dryly disproved Cullen's assumption and his silhouette slowly materialized from the shadows, approaching the bars with his arms folded on chest. "On the contrary, in fact," he remarked with a chuckle, looking now straight into his prisoner's eyes that seemed radiant with grievance. "You see, you just happen to stand between me and someone I'm obligated to _kill_, Cullen." Hawke tried his best to pronounce it casually, as if speaking about an interesting weed he'd seen growing on Sundermount, but his eyes betrayed him nonetheless. For all that Cullen knew, only one person in the world could evoke such a hatred in Hawke's face, and suddenly Cullen was not the only one with grievance written all over his face.

"Meredith…!" Cullen breathed out and rattled the bars again, missing out the obvious remorse Hawke was experiencing regarding this most extreme solution he had resorted to in order to avoid the inevitable clash with Cullen prior to his ultimate battle with Meredith if she refused to decently lie down and die before the coronation.

"Indeed Meredith," Samael confirmed and he would have loved to spit once the name was said out loud. "What did you expect me to do, Cullen? Watch you as you foolishly throw yourself between her and me just as you threatened you would? A brave act no doubt, as well as naïve."

"Do you call one's loyalty and duty _foolishness_?" Cullen whispered in disbelief since only now he was slowly starting to realize the full extent of what had happened and what else would happen now when Hawke got elegantly rid of him and stashed him into this hole abandoned by the Maker Himself.

"I call it an unfortunate waste of potential, Cullen. I don't think Kirkwall can afford to lose yet another capable man. You see – there are only a few of us left," Hawke's overweening sneer broadened. "You better wake up, my friend, and look at it from other points of view than your own," Hawke hissed in contempt and he would have preferred to reach through the bars and slap the man who had deliberately imprisoned himself within his righteous Templar role and that led him straight into this mess. Hawke was merely an executor of the inevitable or at least he was convinced that he was.

"Oh, and what view is _that_, I wonder?" Cullen sarcastically retorted and punched the bars.

"Someone has to step up once Meredith lies cold in a tomb," Hawke shrugged in a matter of fact manner, watching the Templar who was now a vivid picture of consternation. "Someone capable must take over the Order and start an actual dialogue with the mages before the two of you tear the city apart and spill the conflict far and wide," the Champion continued and noticed that Cullen was now actually listening to him; even though still horrified by his Mistress' insinuated end he would play no part in.

Frantically thinking about what he had just heard, Cullen merely exploited the obvious loophole when he triumphantly blurted out, "I'll tell everyone of what you've done to me. I'll tell everyone of your devious plans, of your depraved crimes, of Meredith's murder. I'll tell everything to everyone!" Cullen did shout the last words, cackling in release, clearly thinking he had just gained superiority over the Champion.

"Oh really," Samael commented on the hollow threat, leaning comfortably against the wall with his legs crossed. "And who will believe a Templar over the Champion of Kirkwall _and_ the Viscount? Hm?" he teased the Templar, awfully self-confident about his carefully outlined plans.

"I'm not afraid of you!" Cullen replied, but his hesitant step backward told Hawke otherwise.

"Well, good for you," Hawke shrugged again, "though I would think twice if I were you," he pointed out and the silence behind the bars confirmed that Cullen was carefully considering his words; not that he had other choice for that matter. "Let's see," Hawke rubbed his chin in pretended contemplation, "Raen Morrel is playing Wicked Grace each night with his ancestors along with his sister. Petrice is Maker knows where, but she deems her new Qunari masters irresistible I daresay, I burnt the boat with Arishok's body myself after I defeated him in a combat, Alrik lies headless in an unmarked grave outside of Kirkwall's walls and Meredith will soon follow his example. Shall I continue the listing?" he nonchalantly asked a question. "Or perhaps you'd prefer to _join_ the list instead?" he asked with a blatant ire within his voice now. "That's what I thought," he quietly replied to his own question when only ashamed silence came from behind the bars. "I'm afraid I must take my leave now," he bounced off of the wall and closed in on the bars again to realize Cullen was sitting on the bunk with his head in palms.

"Hawke, please don't do this," Cullen pleaded with him once he figured there was no stopping the madness of this single man who got lost along the way that he thought lead him to power and supremacy, though it was getting darker and darker with each step he took. The man who would shortly get Kirkwall served on a silver plate to do with it as he pleased. "You can choose _not_ to do this! You can still do the right thing here."

"Sure I can," Samael slowly replied as if thinking about Cullen's words, "but I won't. Farewell, Cullen," he bid the Templar adieu as if he didn't expect to ever see him again. "Oh, and if you hear an explosion around the high noon, don't worry about it. You'll be safe here," he uttered as if it was completely normal and before Cullen could have fully comprehended the words, Hawke was already gone, leaving the Templar alone with his despair.

oOo

"I still don't understand why you insisted on coming here, Fawn, when you could have comfortably stayed in at my estate and rest." It was the fifth time that Hawke reminded the elf of that fact. He was glad Fawn was alive and well enough to attend to the coronation, but he dreaded the moment something went wrong and an inglorious stampede through Kirkwall would be in order then. "What if something happens? Don't take this the wrong way, but you're not exactly at your best, are you? What happens if—"

"Oh, zip it, will you!" Fawn waved him quiet along with his melodic laughter and kept tending to the ceremonial sash that just didn't seem to be in its perfect place across Hawke's chest.

"Don't you understand?" Hawke pushed the elegant pale fingers away, suspecting anyway that Fawn just wanted to paw him and the sash was just a cheap pretense. "We might get to a point when our best friends will be our legs and a wise retreat will be in order! Now how do we do that when you are not able to run?"

"Well, I can always shift into something, as you shems call it, _unnatural_." Fawn sneered and finally the wretched sash seemed to be precisely where it was supposed to.

"Oh really!?" Hawke slapped the pale fingers away one more time. "Like what?" he demanded details.

"Something so inconspicuous, that you'd be sick of how inconspicuous it'll be!" Fawn kept making jokes when he'd rather confess to the real reason he insisted on coming here; once again against his better judgment. That reason might be lurking in the shadows in the gallery right above their heads at the very moment, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike. At least Fawn would have chosen this place and this time to strike - lots of people, lots of chatter, lots of clapping and false smiles, only a few security precautions. The possibility to pierce the Viscount's throat with an Antivan plumed bolt – high. The possibility to be caught after the heinous crime once the assassin managed to blend into the hysteric crowds – practically non-existent.

"Like a fly?" Samael hesitantly asked, clearly intrigued by the idea of shape shifting.

"Like a fly," the elf thoughtlessly confirmed while checking whether Hawke's katana was loose in its adorned sheathe; just in case.

"Then I don't like that idea _whatsoever_!" Samael burst out wailing again and collapsed to the nearest armchair, hiding his face in palms. "What if some corpulent noble woman swats you with her ugly fan?! Are you willing to risk such an end of the Hero of Fereldan?"

"Calm down, my brother." Fawn placed both his hands on the shoulders of the sitting man, giving him a reassuring smile while he painfully realized he would need one himself. "What's going on with you today? Why so nervous?" He narrowed his eyes and started slowly realizing only now that there might be much deeper reasons for Champion's restlessness. Wasn't this what he wanted? Wasn't this what he'd been fighting for? He was about to become the Viscount of Kirkwall. Accolades were about to shower him. The throne at the Keep awaited him. The people loved him for what he represented for them. According to Hawke, Meredith was dealt with. What was not to be liked here then?

"I'm not nervous! Do I look nervous? You're nervous!" Hawke swept the hands off him, jumped up to his feet and strode toward the mirror standing in the corner, nervously tugging at his apparel here and there. It was so not like his beloved black leather!

"Well, do you want to remain nervous or would you prefer to be uncomfortable instead?" Fawn asked with sarcasm only he possessed as he glanced toward the closed door to which Hawke replied with a raised eyebrow. "Your father wishes to speak with you," Fawn whispered since it was clear the Champion awaited some explanation.

"Oh," Hawke's frenetic excitement dimmed at once. "All right," he muttered to himself and looked at Fawn again as if he sought guidance from him in this matter.

"I'll leave you two to it then," Fawn cleverly used this moment to disappear and search the most obvious spots around the Chantry nave suitable for little assassinating to be performed, then dismiss the spots, and seek more subtle places where a skilled assassin could lie in wait. What would Fawn do should he really encounter the Crow right now, right here, he did not know. He could only nurture a tiny hope that Zevran would give him enough time to raise alarm, so only one of the heroes would perish within the Chantry's walls today.

"Father…" The eyes of both Hawke's met through the mirror at first, only then Samael slowly turned, realizing all too late that he probably looked like the noble man they had been laughing at once. The old mage reached obviously the same conclusion, but commented on it he did not as he cautiously made sure they were truly alone instead.

"You look…" Malcolm searched for the acceptable word for a while, "nice, I suppose," he seemed to get a neutral one and then they both remained silent for a while, simply exchanging long telling gazes.

"Are you familiar with the plan then?" Samael rather changed the subject and needlessly checked the katana again. "More importantly - are you willing to do as I tell you?" he asked a hard straightforward question and was clearly relieved when Malcolm nodded his tacit agreement.

"You seem troubled," Malcolm remarked, waiting for clarification that did not come. "Samael, about what I told you earlier…" Malcolm attempted to explain again, but his son twitched and withdrew into himself as if he was again that young boy being scolded by his overbearing father on daily basis. Not taking the hint, Malcolm continued. "Please don't take that as if I blamed you for anything. Because I didn't and I still don't," he added in haste once he saw his son was searching in panic a way out of this conversation, but then he suddenly froze. He turned back to the older man, slowly, deeply inhaling as if preparing for a leap which in no way could have helped him overcome the gaping chasm that was between him and his father.

"Father," Samael seriously addressed the one who had given him life, then abandoned him. "Nothing you can say will ever be enough to justify why you left. Nothing. So don't even bother. You've explained enough. Luckily neither the mother nor your other children lived long enough to hear what I had to hear from you today. You…" he faltered and fiercely turned away from the old man, only to whirl around to face him again. "You… Selfish… Arrogant… Childish…Rah!" he ended his outburst with an inhuman scream and set his fists as if ready to strike the man.

"Yes, just say it! Don't spare me!" Malcolm lost his repose at this point as well. "A mage drunk on his power! Irresponsible man who could not tolerate the shackles of his family anymore! An unready father for an unwanted child! A weak man who created you and then left you when he was too scared of what you've become! Shall I continue, my son? Tell me! Say it! TELL ME WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO NOW!?"

Transfixed by the horrid scene, Samael stumbled backwards from the man who chose not to be his father anymore years ago and now he thought he could take that privilege back again, simply because it seemed convenient. "Just… Stop. This is pointless," Samael quietly uttered and then it finally dawned to him. He was not supposed to be there. He was not supposed to be there at the Chantry at all. He was supposed to be sailing to Fereldan right now, just as his devious plan had been outlined long time ago. Every fiber of him writhed within him to start running right now, to grasp that life he wanted. It was within his arm's reach, for Maker's sake! Leave everything behind just as he wanted. Just as he had desired for a very long time. His basic instincts were in complete conflict with what he'd allowed to maneuver himself into. With what he'd become while chasing power he didn't want and fame he didn't need. And it was no longer Samael Hawke who strolled toward the door, put his hand on the handle and announced, "I'm going to be crowned a Viscount now. We shall resolve our issues afterward if you wish. Or you can leave. You're skilled at that. I care not. Now if you'll excuse me," he glanced at his father with solemnity Malcolm hadn't ever seen within his son. Perhaps it was that cold demeanor and the fact he no longer recognized his son that forced Malcolm to stay. Because at this point this whole ceremony was bound to end badly and his son was the only one who did not see that coming.

oOo

The thick atmosphere within the Chantry did not correspond at all to the joyous ceremony that was supposed to take place in a few minutes. The nobles, unusually quiet, were exchanging glances and short comments, the Guards-Captain kept pacing around the nave giving orders to her men and clearly unable to stand on one spot longer than one minute while Sebastian along with Varric watched the commotion around them from their prominent seats with disquiet they didn't even bother to hide. The Hero of Fereldan was last seen strolling on a high-placed gallery above their heads as if the ceremony beneath his feet was also beneath his pride and thus his true purpose up there remained conveniently hidden for now. The Grand Cleric was overseeing the preparations by the altar and from time to time her eyes wandered around the Maker's house as if she indeed expected yet another guest to the ceremony, but wished the guest would have decided to stay at the Gallows nonetheless.

"Where are you, damn it! Where are you…" Fawn's disquiet reached its peak once the audience beneath his feet stirred and then rose from their seats like one man, pressing their right fists against their hearts as the tradition compelled them. "Show yourself," he whispered as he peeked down over the balustrade where Fawn indeed spotted the Champion of Kirkwall slowly treading down the corridor between the colorful sea of nobles who were stretching their necks to steal a glimpse at the man who was about to become their Viscount. A subtle movement within the shadows behind a column in his eye level was enough to make Fawn's heart racing, but then his eyes met with Malcolm's and even though it was always tough to say whether the old mage looked at you or not, they understood each other as they were both consumed with the same worries about the reckless man parading downstairs with nonchalance they didn't recognize.

"Blessed are thee who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter. Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just." Elthina clearly considered any delay as needless postponing of the inevitable as she started the ritual of coronation the moment Hawke reached her and kneeled in front of her. "Beloved Kirkwall, we are gathered here today to acknowledge the right of this man to bear the Viscount's crown that shall be bestowed on him upon his oath to serve this city and its best interests, to be a fearful servant of the Chantry and a strong leader to our armies who will protect the city and its citizens with his own life if necessary." As she spoke, her arms were slowly ascending above Hawke's head, holding the jagged onyx crown between her open palms, until the eyes of all were fixed on it in awe. "May he bear this crown in health, may it guide him through the shadows, may it burden him with the weight of his choices, and may it doom him should he stray from the path of the righteous." Elthina then ceremonially placed the crown upon Samael's head and its black coldness blended within his raven hair as if it belonged there forever.

"Hail! Hail! Hail!" The nobles let out three exhilarating shouts of joy according to tradition and they seated themselves again to listen to the new Viscount's speech. Taking a deep breath and awfully aware of the cold chunk of black stone circling his forehead, Samael rose to his full height, bowing to the Grand Cleric, and only then he turned around and presented himself to his new subjects. The crowds burst out cheering, some of the nobles sprang out of their seats again, clapping and chanting to welcome the new Viscount among them. And Hawke stood there; serene, solemn, devoid of any burdening emotions as he believed he had lost them the moment Merrill decided not to be a part of his life anymore. The clapping seemed endless, the crown seemed heavier and heavier, and Hawke even glimpsed a few grim faces within the waving crowds and every slightest move of those few who failed to manifest their love for their new Viscount seemed like an assassination attempt to Hawke's mind stricken with paranoia.

The applause then slowly waned, until there was but one pair of hands slowly, if not straightforward ironically, clapping and clapping and clapping in unnerving staccato, so soon enough everyone started searching for the one who dared disrupt the ceremony. Hawke had felt her sooner than he actually saw her; her deranged eyes, face contorted into a mask that frightened anyone brave enough to look at it, the convulsiveness of her movements, nervous ticks within her face when she laid her eyes at the one she believed was the devious engineer of her downfall. How was Meredith alive still was beyond Hawke's knowledge.

"And so the assiduous apprentice surpassed all expectations, outperformed his Mistress and snatched the crown for himself. Bravo! Bravo! What bravado! All that without the slightest acknowledgment to whom he owes his gratitude to. My, oh my, who would have guessed that while watching you stumbling off the boat from Fereldan years ago." Meredith clearly decided that the Viscount's coronation speech rightfully belonged to her instead as she approached the taciturn man with the crown on his head, glaring at him and clawing at air with her bare hands.

"Meredith, I beseech you, come with me back to the Gallows, and let's have my physicians to look at you, my dear." At this point Elthina clearly considered it necessary to step in and prevent the coronation to end in blood since Meredith groped with her both hands at her back to unsheathe her legendary great-sword.

"DON'T TOUCH ME!" Meredith attitude; mocking, yet at least controlled so far, changed in a second as she screamed at the approaching Grand Cleric and shoved her away from her with all her remaining strength. Elthina lurched, and her body hit the altar in full momentum where she collapsed down and remained lying there without a move. Still oddly impassive to how quickly his coronation took such a nasty turn, Hawke intended to go and check on the old Elthina, but Meredith sword under his chin convinced him not to. "All of you… Don't touch me… Don't move… Blasphemers… Defilers… You all shall burn… You all shall die!" she started shrieking in all four directions and Samael had no other choice but to copy her uncoordinated pace; having the blade at his throat still.

Samael, as if immune to the madness right in front of him, calmly watched Meredith's show and listened to her inhuman screeching with stone expression on his face and for now he left the katana in its sheathe as he was pondering his possibilities here; one worse than the other. He either let this madness continue, or he would challenge this woman to the combat in front of the whole Chantry and that was bound to end in her death since the poison within her was counting her last hours and in no way could Hawke consider this combat as a fair fight of equally skilled warriors. It would be nothing but a foul and brazen murder. Time to think was gone though, when Meredith let out yet another wordless squawk and she thrust her blade into the nearest noble who collapsed down and her eyes rolling backward in her head confirmed she was gone in but a few heartbeats. The people then blared and hysteria broke out.

"No one moves!" Meredith's thundering voice commanded them with such a power that everyone obediently cowered into their seats again; everyone apart from the Champion of Kirkwall who stood where Meredith had left him, only the katana was now freed from its sheathe and it was just as eloquent challenge to end this the hard way as it could get. "So," Meredith venomously remarked when she finally understood in her scrambled mind what was going on. "It finally comes to this. Look at you, standing there all decked out, with that patronizing look and Fereldan stench all over you! You're fooling no one, Fereldan mutt!" she cackled and pointed her sword at him. "You're still that wretched small-time thief and smuggler you always were, you're still nobody and all those who seem to revere you are bound to see you _fall_!"

"As the Viscount of Kirkwall, I hereby sentence you to death for murder of Lady Elora. The crime was witnessed by the city's most prominent citizens as well as the Maker Himself and I will carry out the deed of punishment myself." Samael remained thoroughly serene as he pronounced the ultimate verdict over Meredith's head. The blood of the noble woman now spilled between the both rivals and it was just as direct charge as the Viscount's words. The breathless audience didn't have a time to squeal in raptures as the rivals tore at each other with ferocity of mountainous seas with a mutual intention – to bathe in blood of the other one. Both of them silent, both skilled with their weapons of choice, yet one of them had venom circling within the veins and that was just as condemning as terrible. The clangor of steel resonated beneath the dome, the sparks were flashing as the steel of Meredith's sword clashed with the svelte katana, but then Meredith's arms just gave up as she realized she possessed the power to wield her sword no longer. Realizing the very same thing at the very same time, having no space to hesitate and let the nobles realize something was amiss, Hawke whirled around his own axis and thrust the blade straight into Meredith's torso with such a momentum that the slender blade penetrated the chest plate and pierced the flesh beneath it right through. Hawke let go of the katana handle as Meredith stumbled backward from her vanquisher, then collapsed to her knees while her widened eyes were fixated on the katana shaft absurdly protruding out of her body, Hawke watched her in something he barely made out as both heart-rending sorrow and intoxicating satisfaction. He made those few steps toward his fallen enemy and slowly genuflected in front of the kneeling Knight-Commander. The silence behind his back was tangible and he was not even sure there were actually any people left in the Chantry apart from him and Meredith. Having really nothing left to say to his sworn enemy, Hawke watched her dying in silence until she started rattling, but after a moment he was more and more sure that she was actually _laughing; _and laughing at him no less.

"I'll pray for you to rot in hell!" he hissed into her face when the restlessness within him reached the unbearable level.

"I left you a little something to remember me by at Sundermount," she spluttered in return at him and a tiny gulley of blood oozed out of her mouth, coloring her teeth and lips.

"Say again?" Samael faltered and heeled over while the victorious sneer vanished off his face.

"A hint for our dim-witted Viscount then," she wheezed and smudged the blood off her mouth like a seasoned warrior, "it involves a herd of elves and a bunch of Alrik's most depraved men. Do the math, boy." More she did not say as Hawke grasped the katana handle with both his hands, ripped it out of her body and took the head clean off the shoulders of the one who had the gift to plague him until the day the Champion of Kirkwall died. Oh, how he was foolish the very first day he met this gorgon and took into his head that he would outsmart her! Curse on that day! Curse on his vanity! Whatever Meredith's last words meant, somehow Hawke was sure there were many more corpses awaiting him at the end of his journey. And Merrill, Merrill, oh yes, Merrill… Did she leave? Had she managed to leave the Dalish camp before Alrik's death squat arrived? Could Samael pretend as if Meredith hadn't said anything about Sundermount?

Already knowing the answer to that particular question, Hawke marched in haste toward the door. He paid no attention to the crowds on the left or right even though his people demanded the guidance from their Viscount now. The immense two-winged door as if responded to his intentions to leave by swinging open on their own, but there was a silhouette standing within them, enlightened by midday sun and bright blue flames of vengeance. Halting in shock in the middle of the Chantry corridor, Hawke watched as if his worst nightmares were to pass as Anders was approaching him with long steps; his glittering staff aimed at the Champion of Kirkwall, his face confident, his hands steady. There was a certain curious element of triumph within mage's posture, as if he came to nothing but gloat about something that had already happened and it was in no one's power to change that; not even the mighty Champion of Kirkwall.

"And so the serpent entered the garden to slither around and gaze upon the results of his fruitless efforts," Hawke slowly remarked on what'd been happening in his opinion.

"Don't act surprised on me now, Hawke!" The skin on Anders' face cracked as his voice gained the deep undertones of the Fade spirit. "This was bound to happen from the moment we met."

"Hm, excuse me, but _what_ exactly was bound to happen?" Samael asked with an innocent face, enjoying the brief wave of uncertainty that ran across Anders' face. Only now Hawke realized that Fawn, Varric and even his father surrounded him from all possible angles as if shielding him. But shielding him from what exactly – that yet remained to be seen. Sebastian, who had been tending to the still Elthina who seemed even paler than Meredith's head, now rose to his feet and with one nimble move he snatched the bow from the nearest Guardsman, drew the bowstring and aimed the arrow straight at the mage who face-in-face with the unrelenting prince faltered.

"You wouldn't dare to send that arrow at the only one who's refused to stand by anymore and watch this city to treat the mages like criminals!" After a thorough consideration, Anders no doubt concluded the arrow was there as nothing more than a ruse. "Or while those who should lead us bow to our Templar jailors!" His voice strengthened as his eyes found Orsino's chiseled face within the crowds around him.

"How dare you…!" First-Enchanter lashed out at the insolent mage, but the staff aimed into his face convinced him to stand down for now.

"The Circle has failed us, Orsino. You, me, as well as every other child that was and still is unjustly convicted of a single crime: to be born with the gifts of magic!" Ander's ardent speech was growing stronger and stronger until everyone in an unwilling audience listened to him against their will in suspense. Such fervor, such willingness to die for what he believed in was animated within that single mage valiant enough to openly defy the world order, that no one remained untouched by that beautiful foolishness. "The time has come to act. There can be no half-measures!" Anders declared with aplomb and he fell silent when his eyes found Hawke who had been watching him in silence and pained expression on his face. While looking at Anders, it wasn't just the mage Hawke saw. He also saw Fenris whom he had shipped away like an uncomfortable bag of troubles. He saw Isabela whom he humiliated and sent away ashamed for her actions that were in no way worse than Hawke's deeds. He saw Hein who rather poisoned himself than to face the wrath of both Hawke and the Antivan Crows.

And then the explosions began. There was a deep, resounding quiver and a boom from what seemed like far way, yet the Chantry floor heaved below Hawke's feet, as if some gargantuan sea creature were making its way to the surface. Indeed Hawke had disarmed the mixture device with combustible substances in the Chantry's catacombs to prevent them from bringing down an unimaginable apocalypse. And indeed that was not the only explosive device Anders had planted as the other one dwelled deep within the bowels of the Gallows; slumbering, waiting to be set off and wipe that wretched place of misery off the face of Kirkwall.

"Anders," Hawke's lips attempted to speak, but nothing but a horror-stricken rasp came out. "What have you done?" There was no pretended fright within those words; it was utterly genuine, since it was becoming clearer and clearer that Samael fatally miscalculated the magnitude of Anders' underground resistance.

"What have I done, you ask?" Anders cackled into his Viscount's face and swung his staff through the air a few times. "What have I done is that I _removed_ the chance for compromise because there _is_ no compromise!" As he was preaching his truth, the mage approached the Champion; one step at a time, as if playfully taunting him, teasing him, challenging him. "There can be no peace," he hissed into Hawke's face only an inch away from his face and the Champion shuddered. Not at that voice. Not at the both threat and scorn within it. Not at the fact that he was once again surrounded by nothing but destruction, death and corpses. Alas, once again, what could have gone wrong went wrong. Hawke was actually prone to start laughing like he had never been laughing ever before in his life. So, this was how his carefully outlined plan was supposed to end?! Sheesh, why the hell not, right? When had ever something crucial gone the way he intended?

Fawn might have been the only keeping his wits about him in that mayhem, but Hawke's face was a terrible thing to behold for him as it was not far from the very same madness that preceded Meredith's ultimate demise. Not feeling his father's arms around him, nor hearing Fawn's insistent voice in his ear convincing him to flee, Hawke reeled around the altar, giggling at the caricature of himself that he'd become so easily. The commotion by the front door was louder and louder as the nobles elbowed their way out of that horrid place while other men, uninvited to the ceremony, tried to force their way in while making such a clamor that Hawke's hysteric laughter died away immediately when he was able to identify them. His business partners, scum at their professions, surprisingly loyal to their scum king since his lyrium trades were more than profitable, were marching inside one by one, holding weapons en garde, howling over one another and demanding a single thing – his head.

"Where is he?! Where's that pig-eating son of a mabari bitch? Come out, come out, little Hawke, let's hear what you've got to say in your defense…!" they bawled as they bore arms against the one they had once revered as their lyrium god.

"Dougal," Varric caught the sleeve of the nearest rascal he had recognized from the Merchants' Guild meetings. "Care to explain what's this all about?" he asked the fellow dwarf and the urgency in his voice couldn't have been more pressing.

"By all means, Tethras! You see, your friend has sold me the lyrium contracts for a seemingly fair sum of nine thousand gold pieces." Dougal started laughing a terrible laughter and Varric just punched him with an impatient grumble since that didn't answer his question in the least.

"You can start making sense any time now, you stinking nug-fucking piece of shit!" Varric's already strained temper blew up as he reached for Bianca to get his beloved involved in this dispute.

"Don't be an idjit, Varric." Dougal spat out a tobacco-colored spittle and pointed his daggers at Varric as a reaction to Bianca. "You see, the problem is that he has sold the lyrium contracts to _all of us_ for that seemingly fair sum of nine thousand gold pieces!" he burst out insanely guffawing as he launched against Tethras who was able to parry that attack by a hair's breadth. By the time the fight reached the altar by which Kirkwall had the privilege to see their young Viscount for the last time, Hawke was long gone by then along with his father and Hero of Fereldan. Thus Samael had missed Anders clawing his way through the hysteric crowds, tearing Elthina in half with magic right before Sebastian's arrow finally found its mark. He had missed as the hysteria spread from the Chantry epicenter throughout the whole city. He had missed the moment when half of the Gallows lie in ruin after the explosion, leaving nothing but smoldering crater and raging fire that threatened to consume the remaining part of the Circle of Magi as well. He had missed when people from all around Kirkwall started reporting in sightings of men in black capes who were running for their lives and wearing the same apparel the Viscount was crowned in. Indeed the very same apparel Hawke had ordered sewn in several duplicates and had paid several lowlifes to wear them, run around the city and thus cover the escape of the real devil. Naturally, they knew nothing of the plan Samael had concocted and that placed them between the rock and a hard place should they get caught.

Fawn and Malcolm had their precise instructions and it would seem they vanished into thin air right after the coronation, but it was Samael Hawke whose head was wanted anyway. Gasping for air, Varric, Aveline and Sebastian halted in a skid right before the steps leading down into the water. The reports from Aveline's men, however confusing they were, had led them into the docks, and there they stood now, looking desperately around for the one whom had gone too far this time in their opinion, but remained their friend nonetheless – maybe now more than ever.

"Here he comes now!" Excited, Varric exclaimed and enthusiastically set off right behind a dark silhouette of a hooded man who sneaked within the shadows of fish warehouse and bolted away the moment he realized he had been spotted and recognized. "Hawke, wait!" Varric wasted his breath while trying to stop the Champion. "Why doesn't he stop?" he moaned at Aveline and Sebastian who were getting ahead of him, hell-bent on capturing their friend and ask him what the hell he was thinking he was doing.

"Samael, stop, wait, damn it!" Aveline's desperate shouts were easily hearable even within all that chaos that surrounded them, but the Champion didn't seem to be prone to oblige her request. He ran across the narrow pier and with a mighty leap, the black cape flying through the air right behind him, the Champion boarded the Crab's crap ship that was already over two meters away; the very same ship Hawke had inherited from Charlie Bowbitter. The Kossith warriors were swarming aboard as the ship glided through dark waters onward and set course straight between the black chains and out of the Kirkwall bay.

Devastated, three differently tall figures stood motionlessly upon the bank of Kirkwall docks amongst the mayhem that ruled the city now, watching the leaving ship and the one whom they could stop calling a friend now returned their gaze as he was standing on the deck like a statue, holding onto the handrail and watching the shrinking Kirkwall. The cannons thundered; awful, ear-lacerating sounds that had the power to take down war galleys, and the Crab's crap ship exploded right after it passed beneath the black chains. Everyone on shore shielded their eyes from such an explosion and nothing but profound silence then followed.

Long those three differently tall silhouettes stood there on the brink of Kirkwall docks, even when the people slowly vanished into the twilight shadows, even when the ship was long gone from the horizon, even when night took a hold of the city as well as of their hearts for Kirkwall just had lost its Champion and Viscount and they had lost a dear friend.


	24. Chapter 24

"Where the hell is he?! He was supposed to be here like two hours ago! I need to go back to Kirkwall." Malcolm kept pacing back and forth in front of his taciturn companion, wringing his hands every time he had the burning Kirkwall in sight across the Wounded Coast bay.

"You need to relax, old man." Fawn proclaimed. He seemed to be the perfect opposite of Samael's restless father – nonchalantly leaning on a tree that may have been green once, arms folded on chest and gazing somewhere distant over the dark waters between him and the alluring horizon.

"What I _need_ is to see my son right here, right now, to actually make sure he's survived – that's what I _need_, damn it! Can you imagine what would await him should he fall into hands of, well, pretty much anyone in Kirkwall right now?!" Malcolm's voice was mutating into another octave as he vigorously mimicked the carnage that would no doubt follow and that would mean only one thing for his son – a short drop and a sudden stop. Kicking the twisted roots of a tree that hung right above the sheer cliff in frustration, Malcolm howled his anger and helplessness regarding the dead end situation. Alas, the roots were as dried and as firm as the tree itself and Malcolm at least found something to blame for the current situation as he stumbled around for a while, cursing the roots while jumping on his one foot to relieve the physical pain. Stoically watching the old man foolishly jumping at the edge of a cliff, Fawn was somehow politely curious whether Hawke's interesting father would meet his untimely demise this rather inglorious way. That would be quite a shame, as Mahariel had put too much effort to get the old man to Kirkwall alive.

"Bewildering," Fawn whispered merely as a reply to his own thoughts, "truly bewildering how swiftly this went from pompous coronation to such ignominious escape from Kirkwall, being chased by the Templars, Guards, Coterie, Merchants' Guild, nobles, Chantry zealots and also apostates who crawled from Maker knows where after that explosion."

"You're not helping, damn you!" Malcolm interrupted that unconcerned enumeration of his son's enemies, clenching his head in splitting headache.

"If you'd only stop making such ungodly noise, you would have spotted your beloved son five minutes ago." Fawn made sure his voice sounded exquisitely arrogant as he appointed the direction in a kingly manner with his white hand. Shutting his trap at once, Malcolm shielded his eyes, looking in the suggested direction, while a sigh of relief escaped his lips and even a faint smile settled there for a while. Soon enough, the black dot in distance transformed into a silhouette, and the silhouette grew into a full-grown man trudging through the sand as if unaware his steps were being closely watched.

"Maker…!"Malcolm exchanged a concerned glance with the Hero of Fereldan and the old mage realized he was no longer the only one who was worried here. Samael was drenched to his very marrow, the long black hair stuck to his skull and hang down in thick tangled strands, and his ceremonial apparel was torn across his chest. Observing his son's wretched state without any comment, his gaze briefly lingered on the crown that was still indeed in Samael's hand, then on his bare feet. Since he'd been clearly swimming at some point of his escape, Malcolm decided no words could do this impossible situation justice. His son looked like a king of all fallen idols and the crown was just that proverbial last piece of Samael's former self. There they stood at the Wounded Coast below the darkening skies – the fallen Champion of Kirkwall who flew so close to the sun, so it smote him along with anyone he associated with.

"I had to… alter… my escape route," was all that Hawke had to say before he gratefully collapsed into his father's arms; not as much as from exhaustion as from a desire to hide from the rest of the world. With one eyebrow raised in unspoken question, Fawn inquired on Samael's health when Malcolm started hastily groping his son's limbs one by one to detect any injury, but apart from a few superficial cuts on his skin he found none.

"Were you seen?" Malcolm asked the crucial question once he was sure Samael was physically more or less all right. He gently took Samael's head between his palms and waited for an answer in suspense.

"I'm afraid our lovely Kirkwall was forced to witness my pitiful death in the explosion on my ship as I cowardly attempted to flee Kirkwall after my treachery was publicly exposed and I practically executed the Knight-Commander in front of all Kirkwall's nobility." Profound silence followed as Samael's dreadful words started sinking in. No one spoke until the silence became unbearable and Fawn decided to step in.

"Everything is prepared according to your plan, Hawke," he considered it wise to throw in something positive as he nodded toward the narrow turn-off from the main path, so insignificant and overgrown by low bushes that it could have been easily missed. "Maraas is guarding the crates, Occela is provisionally stabled in the caves and we're ready to set signal as soon as the ship appears on the horizon." While speaking, Fawn sauntered toward the Champion, thoroughly searching his face as if looking for something that was supposed to be there, but simply wasn't. "Poor child," he whispered as his hand briefly brushed against tanned skin of Hawke's cheek. Those words coming from anyone else – that anyone would lose an arm before even finishing it. But from Fawn; from this peculiar elf who was like Hawke in so many ways, yet they both couldn't be more different from the other one at the same time, those words were balm to Samael's soul crushed and torn by the ultimate defeat he had sustained today in Kirkwall. Drawing a hesitant smile from the Champion, Fawn's gentle smile twisted into his famous crooked sneer as he snatched the crown from Hawke's hand, putting it askew on his own head, and he slipped his one arm around Hawke's waist, strolling down the path, murmuring, "Let's get you out of those soaked clothes, hm? Maybe a sip of something decadent, what do you say…?"

Malcolm did not hear more as he just rolled his eyes about how nicely the elf just wrapped up the catastrophe that hung upon their heads and put a big scarlet bow of dismissal on it. The longer they lingered there, the greater the threat was that someone would walk up on them, raising alarm and then all hell would break loose. Suddenly alone, Malcolm stood there on what seemed like a navel of the world with Kirkwall right at his eye level that burnt and smoldered like a voiceless accusation of his son and all his ill deeds. Oddly enough, Malcolm found himself oblivious to the suffering of those in the city, while he was utterly focused on the suffering of his only living child and how to ease his pain if he was not able to straightforward make it go away. Neighing and clattering softened by the sand interrupted his thoughts though; he whirled around to see his son riding Occela who impatiently danced beneath his Master as he clearly considered any procrastination as pointless and his temporary incarceration in a cave as undeserved. Obviously with Fawn's help Samael got rid of his ruined ceremonial apparel and changed into a set of pliable leather armor that was lined with fur and on top of it all Hawke shrouded himself into a light traveler's grey cloak that had its hems embroidered with bright red silk.  
>Understanding his son's intentions all too late, Malcolm felt obligated to stop him from this foolishness, because he didn't have to be a clairvoyant to guess Samael's thoughts. "If you think I'm going to let you scurry along the coast right until the ship comes; if it's even coming, then you're sorely mistaken, my son," Malcolm grumbled and thoughtlessly patted Occela's nape etched with thick veins that burnt hot.<p>

"It's not that," Samael quietly replied and glanced back at Fawn who was approaching them with an apologetic expression that even he was not able to dissuade Samael to drop this rash journey to Sundermount. "It's Merrill." Samael did not look into his father's face when he said that name.

"Naturally," Malcolm coldly retorted and his old fierce-tempered self would have loved to slap his son and drag him off the horse and chain him in the caves to keep him safe until the ship arrived. "Just one question – do you seriously believe a few dying words of a deranged woman?"

"I believe… This!" Samael leaned down from his high seat and stuck his finger right into Malcolm's face with defiance. Malcolm's eyes narrowed as he examined the black smooth ring on his son's finger; now burning red-hot, that the flesh beneath it was red-rimmed. "I must go, father. I don't expect you to understand. Watch the horizon. Send the signal once you spot the ship. I'll be back within an hour." Both Hawkes exchanged long gaze then, waiting for the other one to say more, but silence pressed down upon them instead.

"Go then. Ride hard. I'll load the crates aboard the ship should you not return in time. Hell, I'll stall the ship, if necessary." Malcolm briefly chuckled, but his face stayed serious.

"Just don't set it ablaze, all right?" Samael gave his father a weak smile before he dug his heels into Occela's flanks. The stallion reared up and bolted up the path. Abandoned at this critical moment, Fawn and Malcolm unintentionally drew closer to each other, watching Samael and his beast as they were becoming smaller and smaller until they disappeared and only whirling sand slowly settling down was the witness of Hawke's foolish decision to investigate just how much truth was in Meredith's last words.

"You or me?" Fawn stoically asked the old mage without taking his eyes off the place where he'd seen the rider last time.

"I'm afraid you already know the answer, my friend," Malcolm replied with dolorous expression on his face.

"Damn it," Fawn stated with the same nonchalant tone, still staring at the path's curve. Feathers rustled; the sound so melancholic and eloquent, and Malcolm realized he was alone as he watched the falcon ascending high above the rugged cliffs with mighty waves of its wings.

"Malcolm Hawke," a deep voice once again invaded Malcolm's thoughts and the old mage turned around to face the Kossith. "The ship is coming," Maraas gestured over his broad shoulder, then immediately returned to his post by the crates containing treasure.  
>"It's about time," Malcolm's face brightened since he indeed spotted a smudge right on the horizon that wasn't there last time he checked. Raising the staff he had been leaning on, Malcolm sent a flock of flames high above the coast and it even lingered there for a while before it dissipated. Fulfilling his simple task, Malcolm slowly turned around and his expression darkened again when he faced the ancient mountain that loomed over the existence of his son in distance.<p>

oOo

What Samael encountered on the path leading to Sundermount was unspeakable. Even years afterward, he would not speak openly of what he'd seen. Mutilated bodies of the elves he once knew with bolts viciously stuck in their backs as they tried to flee from their captors. The fearless elven hunters hacked into bloodied piles of rags and flesh. Charred corpses, twisted into agonizing sculptures that would fall apart should someone touch them. Dead eyes widened in horror told horrid tales of what they'd witnessed right before the life was stolen away from them. Occela had to slow down as Hawke decided to take this shortcut through the forest, thinking it would conveniently hide him beneath the trees and within twilight shadows. Oh, how he regretted to even setting foot down this path of destruction! But what choice did he have left? Could he leave? Just like it? Despite the fact he knew what had been probably happening at Sundermount? Maybe even could have foreseen it? Prevented it? No. At this point there was no turning back. The fear that next corpse down the path would be Merrill's was overwhelming, the stench of the gory mess all around was sickening and even the ever still dauntless Occela was prancing about, whinnying and resisting to go any further. Only the will of his Master kept him on that path that led them to the end.

If Hawke believed he was prepared for anything that awaited him further ahead, then he was sorely mistaken. Arriving at the glade, he saw it all. Burning arravels, thick grey smoke dancing in the wind, scattered corpses of both the Dalish and Templars, two Templars holding Veryan down as the third branded his forehead with the Tranquil insignia while chanting the words no mage should ever hear in this world, depriving him of his abilities, his dreams and feelings. Hawke's hands holding the reins lifelessly dropped down as he faced the atrocities unfolding in front of him and then he found the one he was looking for. The altar the Dalish Keeper used to work her magic just as Marethari did before her was encircled by the cackling Templars and something was thrashing about right on top of it.

Paralyzed by the distant scene and blind to more imminent threat nearby, Hawke reacted all too late. The spear thrown at them from his left side missed him by a few inches, but the second one pierced Occela's shoulder. The stallion let out a long wail, reared and threw the rider off the saddle, then collapsed on his side, hopelessly attempting to catch a hold of the spear viciously jabbed in his flesh. Disoriented after the unexpected fall, Hawke scrambled up to his feet, brandishing around his katana in uncoordinated moves as he was looking for his assailants. There they were, coming at him with merciless grimaces on their faces since Alrik's men preferred not to wear their helmets. When they attacked, Samael didn't think about his tactics, didn't focus on his footing or technique. All he saw was that slender body writhing on the altar and each of her screams was rewarded by yet another salvo of cruel laughter from her captors. She didn't call her elves for help; not once did she call upon the Creators to strike down her tormentors, she called him. She called Hawke over and over again; each time more beseechingly than the last.  
>The Templars hit the dirt headless, and Hawke realized his legs started running, sprinting like never before, toward the altar while his eyes hypnotized that hunk of runed stone as if the fate of the world depended on it. The Templars were onto him like hornets as they took him down halfway to the object of his existence. Wallowing in the dirt, fighting for his life with bare hands, Hawke was soon overpowered by them and they held him down on his knees with his arms twisted behind his back, forcing him to watch as the circle around the altar opened and there she was, lying with her robes torn in shreds, her arms and legs bound by ropes her captors held in their unclean hands while Alrik's first-at-command was hastily unbuckling his armor. It dawned to Hawke unbelievably slowly what was about to happen as he stared in disbelief at Merrill's face covered with dirt and scratches.<p>

"Look here, boys," the leader guffawed at the lovers who desperately looked at one another, "looks like we caught two mice on one piece of stinking cheese," he finished his misplaced joke with rapturous laughter. "Now, princess, tell your lover what you told me when we gripped you by that little ass of yours in Kirkwall," he leered at Merrill's breast peeking out of her torn robes and then glanced at Hawke who didn't even try anymore to get rid of his captors. He was mortified. From all possible scenes, all possible outcomes, this was completely beyond his worst nightmare. "TELL HIM!" the Templar shrieked and forced her to look at Hawke though she struggled not to. "Tell him or we slice his throat like a chicken," he hissed into her ear and to emphasize the threat, one of his minions pressed a blade against Hawke's throat.

"I told them… Please don't hurt me… Because I'm with a child…" Merrill whispered as if her heart was breaking and only then a single bitter tear rolled down her cheek when she clenched her eyes in defeat. That's when she felt the Templar violently penetrating her while the other Templars let out boisterous shouts of approval and amusement.

It was as if someone turned off sound for Samael. All shouts and laughter and Merrill's cries – muted. All motion and action – smudged. He watched Merrill's limp body as it lye there helplessly only a few feet away from him, yet she was as far away from him as ever. He watched the brute as he rattled in ecstasy, and he watched himself from above as he was observing his worst nightmares coming true while doing nothing to stop them. Something soft brushed against Hawke's cheek as the falcon flew past his head and attacked the rapist; his claws jabbed into the skull, his beak mercilessly pecking at the eyes of the screaming Templar until the others tore the bird away from their leader and hurled him against the cold ground where it remained sitting and quietly peeping. When Merrill's tormentors turned around, Hawke was no longer kneeling and his captors were giving their death rattles. Hawke felt the hot drops of their blood covering his face and he felt a single droplet dribbling down in between his sneering lips. He slowly licked it and the sneer ever broadened as the sneer of his enemies faded. Motionless, sizing up all six well-built Templars in front of him with his eyes narrowed and face obscured by disheveled hair, Hawke stood there like a pagan god of vengeance and only his heaving chest and dark guttural growling coming from his deepest inner self told the Templars that they were about to taste the wrath of the Champion of Kirkwall who was seething like he'd never been before in his entire life. All he saw in front of him was dead meat that didn't know about it yet. Groping for their swords and exchanging uncertain glances, the Templars didn't seem so sure in their number suddenly. Two of them nodded at each other, threw their blades to the ground and started quite ingloriously running, though they didn't get far as Hawke's throwing blades found their napes no matter how they dodged or how far they managed to get.

The four remaining rascals dressed for the Templars gulped and their limbs were shortly scattered all around and their sobs and wails filled the air heavy with smoke from the fire that slowly consumed the arravels. The Templar leader, blinded by blood streaming down his face, who had been crawling in the dirt and cursing was pinned down to the ground with Hawke's katana that went straight through the parts that committed a capital offence on Merrill's honor. The moment Merrill was free from her captors, she rolled on her side on the altar and she remained there huddled up into herself with her eyes firmly closed. Hawke twisted the katana within the wound that was bound to bleed for many minutes before it would become lethal, then his eyes feral with revenge looked up and he let go of the katana handle. At first, Merrill withdrew in panic from him as he attempted to touch her, but his arms then roughly grasped her anyway and forced her to look at him.

To Hawke's surprise, Merrill looked… normal. There were no emotions on her pale face as she calmly returned her lover's gaze. Only then her eyes filled with tears and her face slowly distorted with unspeakable pain and humiliation of what she'd gone through. "Where were you?" She put all her pain, all her hope that he would come in time but he didn't, into those three simple words. The hope he had failed. Even though she fought him at first, Hawke held her within his arms, glad that he did know about her tears, but she didn't know about his. Yet there was no time to linger there at that place of horrors where nothing but death and destruction awaited them. Only now Hawke's eyes met with Fawn's who shifted back to his form at some point, nursing the fresh wound on his head inflicted when the Templars struck him down. Fawn's expression was eloquent as he heavily got up and nodded towards the path leading back to the coast. They needed to leave and they needed to leave right away.

"Will he be able to carry her?" Samael quietly asked when he reached the Hero of Fereldan who tended to Occela's wound the best way he could without magic as he was too exhausted to do so. Fawn glanced at him, realizing Merrill was curled within Hawke's arms with her head buried in his shoulder and her agonizing sobs were expressive on their own regarding of how she was.

"No," Fawn slowly shook his head and gazed back upon the magnificent beast that was trembling as it was fighting to stand. "He'll be lucky if he makes it back to the ship."

"Then we walk," Hawke desperately retorted and thoughtlessly weighed Merrill's body in his arms. He felt her warm blood coating his arm and hand. Great. She was bleeding after what that brute did to her. And there was nothing he could do about it now. It would seem his best option was to get her to his father as soon as possible.

Without another word, their rather odd motley company set off the same road Hawke had come here. Fawn led the stallion who tripped several times over his own feet, but the elf somehow managed to keep him standing so far. Hawke felt his arms burning beneath the weight of Merrill's still body, but it was her nearness that forced him to keep going and don't look back. She was awake and Samael knew it because she had her head rested against his shoulder, looking inertly at his face from side, listening to his labored breathing as he kept marching forward. Her silence and stillness was terrifying. Once or twice a minute Hawke glanced at her, but neither of them uttered a word. The path now cut through the shallow dale and the forest was thinning out. Once Samael smelled the salt of the sea within his lungs, he breathed it in like a thirsty man would drink fresh water. Only now he focused on the arcane warrior who had been plodding by his side in silence and the elf looked indeed as if he should drop down unconscious any second since his head wound re-opened and the crimson streams of blood grazed their way down the pale skin and silver hair. Occela was doing no better than the elf as he was heavily limping with his head stooping down, taking no interest of where he was going and when would the agony stop.

"Finally! Praise the Maker! I thought I'd—" Malcolm came dashing toward them, but fell silent once he realized what horrid shape those four were in. "I don't want to know." Malcolm woke up from his consternation and wisely decided not to pry. He wanted to help, but couldn't decide right away who was in need of a healer the most.

"No time for that anyway," Samael dismissed the idea of narration of what'd happened. "The ship…?" he asked about the only relevant thing here.

"Loaded and waiting at the harbor for us," Malcolm replied immediately and hastily led them to the ferry and several small boats that were supposed to take them to the ship. The old mage proved his worth as he managed to get them across the harbor and aboard the ship in no time and the only incident occurred when he attempted to pull Merrill apart from his son since the blood all over her thighs and his hands was disturbing, but didn't succeed since Merrill squealed in panic and clasped her fingers around Samael's neck strong enough for the nails to draw blood. After that, Malcolm ceased his attempts to help and went standing on the prow of the ferry, facing the ship, giving the lovers some space to recuperate.

"Merrill," Hawke quietly addressed her, at this point very much concerned by her cuddly state of mind and hysteric reactions whenever someone tried to separate them. "Merrill, you need to let go of me now. We need to climb aboard the ship. I'll wait for you on decks, all right? Can you do that for me?" he patiently explained to her when nothing but sheer confusion mirrored within her widened eyes. With a mute nod, she slowly loosened her grasp on him, though she didn't look as if she knew what was going on around her. Nodding at his father, Samael dexterously climbed up the rope ladder, immediately turning around and extending his arm down toward the Dalish girl. Merrill watched the dangling hand, then the ladder, but only when Malcolm gently pushed her toward it and put her foot onto the first step did she wake up and started slowly climbing up the ladder, moaning in pain every step of the way. Grasping her by her thin arms, Samael didn't wait for her to get aboard on her own as he pulled her up instead; wrapping her into his own cloak. "Take her," he unwillingly left her to Malcolm to care for her wounds since the Carta representatives were lined up all around him and one of them was clearly nervously expecting his attention.

"Greetings, Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall and friend to all Carta folks," he started his ceremonial speech once he was assured of Hawke's favor.

"Please, hold that speech, friend," Samael slowly beckoned at the dwarf, helping Fawn conquer the ladder this time. "I imagine we must look, well, at least strange to your eyes." Hawke glanced about, realizing he and his party was more or less covered in blood.

"Oh, please, my dear Champion, do you really think we are unfamiliar to such unfortunate things? As our beloved queen of Carta scoundrels says – shit simply happens, right? Beside, I'm not here to judge you, my lord," the dwarf dryly laughed and sympathetically stepped forward. "My name is Leske. I'm Jarvia's second-in-command and we are instructed to treat you like a king of Orzammar."

"I hear you often assassinate your dwarven kings," Samael responded with brief chuckle, but his eyes remained inquisitive, if not straightforward suspicious.

"Haha, that would be true, my lord. What a keen observation from a topsider! Haha! With this approach I think you'd fit in among us just fine." Leske laughed again his dry laughter and lifted his ridiculous dwarven hat as if he hailed to Hawke's silver tongue. "But we are to treat you according to how much vital you were to our lyrium trade, and that is kingly sentence indeed. Please, make yourself at home. Several most comfortable cabins were prepared for you and those who travel with you. And I suspect that you might find the fact we are smuggling a few apostates who can work healing magic quite convenient," he grinned a broad smile, showing his rotten teeth, and Hawke had yet to decide whether he liked this Leske or not. "Please," Leske the Basilisk then gestured toward the narrow door leading into the bowels of the ship. "Let us retire inside and we can confer about the situation and I will require a list of all your demands and wishes as for the time being."

"Fair enough," Hawke bowed his thanks and he glanced one last time at the Wounded Coast in distance that was dissipating in the evening mists until it disappeared entirely. Finally, he left the Free Marches behind him and Fereldan awaited him as impatiently as a mother greets her prodigal son.

oOo

"There you are."

And with that single, quiet, yet also a bit wry sentence Hawke was discovered in his place of exile in the lower decks.

"I had no idea I was missed." Samael took another generous gulp from his bottle that was half-empty already, but even this one didn't seem to help to quiet down the demons that plagued him, forcing him to relive over and over again the whole day.

"How's Occela?" Fawn rather changed subject as he strolled toward the stallion that had his torso bandaged with white linen, though the wound on his shoulder had been mended by an apostate Leske sent earlier.

"He'll live," Hawke uttered yet another short reply, but this time he couldn't hide the relief in his voice as his eyes kept intently watching over the beast he had come to love and the beast was peacefully munching on hay as if nothing else was of import. And maybe there really wasn't, Hawke thought to himself. They were all alive after all. Despite how disastrously the coronation and everything that came afterwards had spun out of control, they survived.

"And how are you?" Fawn casually asked another question, setting his inquiring eyes at the subject of his interest.

"Me? How am I doing?" Hawke had to laugh since he found that question ultimately inappropriate since the blame for today's disaster lay mainly on his shoulders. "I'm ashamed, I'm sad, I'm angry and too much of a coward to face anyone right now. That's how I'm doing." He cut his bitter outburst off with yet another gulp of Chasind sack mead and grimaced as the brutishly strong honey liquor oozed down his throat.

"So, wallowing in fear and self-pity then," Fawn stated with a mocking snort. The bottle thudded upon the wooden deck strewn with straw where it toppled over and the golden liquor started leaking out.

At the same time, Fawn was indelicately pressed against the planks that were hastily built to stable Occela, and Hawke's eyes burning with ire were but an inch away from his two calm black eyes. "Don't…" Samael fumbled for the correct words for a while, still crushing Fawn's clothing within his fists. "Don't patronize me!" he sizzled down into elf's face and then hissed again, though in pain this time. His left crippled hand spasmed and he clenched it within his other hand as he was reminded again and again of his disability.

Watching Hawke as he turned away from him, ashamed for both his outburst and weakness, Fawn slowly stepped forward, straightening his apparel. "I'm going to forgive you what's just happened, Hawke," he stated and his words had the gravity of a mountain. "But don't you dare relieve your frustration on me again, I warn you. Find me whenever you're ready to apologize and talk for I need to speak with you rather urgently." Never before had Hawke witnessed Fawn in such noble and graceful manner like now, and his shame even deepened. The elf was truly an Elvhenan prince from long gone era of Arlathan Empire.

"Fawn…!" he softly called out at him, but it was too late. The door leading to residential part of the ship already quietly closed behind the elf. "I'm sorry," Hawke whispered and slowly sank down along Occela's slender leg. "I'm so sorry. For everything," he sobbed and the demons crawled out again and seized his mind. Hawke may have never realized it, but the worst enemy of his walking the earth was himself.

oOo

"Did you wish to talk to me?" Hawke managed to take Maraas by surprise with his quiet question maybe for the first time he had known him. On upper decks they stood under starry heaven and a shower of salty sea water sprayed their faces now and then as the Carta ship relentlessly sailed away from the rocky coasts of Free Marches toward the green shores with white cliffs of Highever.

"Yes, Hawke, I did indeed." Maraas bowed his head and glanced upon the stars once more before he set his dark eyes on Champion's face. He searched that face, haunted by every single thing that had gone wrong that day and each and every one of them left there an indelible trace. "I've been meaning to ask whether you were satisfied with our performance today," he grumbled the most unexpected question that left Samael dumbfounded. He expected outburst, blind rage and an attempt to toss him overboard; really anything but this calm, almost solemn question about how Maraas' men did while Hawke decided to waste them all aboard of the Crab's crap ship to make his death more believable.

"Really?" Samael burst out hysterically guffawing, still half-expecting he would end up at the bottom of the sea with a 20-pound iron ball chained to his feet. "That's what you're going to ask of me, knowing that all your men are dead because of me? That I've fed them to fish as a perfect nuance to my brilliant ruse? Are you serious?"

"Yes, Hawke. I'm serious." Maraas watched then in silence the ever still chuckling human in front of him and only a slight crinkle between his brows was giving out his confusion about Hawke's unfathomable behavior.

"Yes, you truly are…" Hawke remarked in surprise once his insane laughter died away and Maraas was still watching him in silence.

"I do not understand what you're now doing, Hawke, but know this. You gave us work when we were starving. You gave us hope when ours died. You gave us purpose when we had none. You are now Basvaarad, worthy of following. Do not play down the meaning of my brethren's death for that would belittle their sacrifice as well as the one that gave them the order to board that ship." So unlike to him, Maraas put his hands on both Hawke's shoulders and looked him straight in the eye while he spoke. "Do not regret your decision, Basvaarad. It was a good death," he rounded up his speech with this cruel statement and walked away on Hawke to signal the discourse was over. Samael stood there, musing over and over again about the words from the proud Kossith. It occurred to him and not for the first time that his views and Maraas' views would never ever be the same, but he didn't regret at all sparing his life since he'd proven himself an invaluable ally and accomplice in many affairs that would render others appalled.

"Care to tell me where you've been hauled up for last four hours?" Malcolm did his best to sound casual, but the wrath within his voice was tangible and now even waxing as he had to wait for the Kossith to clear off.

"Care to tell me why should I confide in you with every step I take?" Samael retorted and faced the dark waters beneath him rather than his father. "You, of all people, dare—" he didn't finish as he bitterly chuckled, then waved his hand as if it didn't matter.

"If this is about the history I've told you earlier today, then I would very much appreciate if you directly talk about it instead of this ridiculous evasion. If you're not feeling like talking about it right now, then may I suggest that the two of us stow our crap until the moment you're ready?!"

But Malcolm's words were like a stick into the beehive instead of their original purpose to calm the situation down.

"You, my _dear_ father," Samael stalked to him and stuck a finger between his eyes, "are not entitled to suggest anything right now! Are we clear? Are we clear, damn it?!" he insisted on the answer, more or less shouting into the old man' face when no reply came at first.

"Yes, we're clear," Malcolm gave out a placid response, watching his son shivering all over his body, his eyes blazing in feverish ire and his hands clawing into fists. Since there was no point in arguing with somebody who was hell-bent on quarreling over anything imaginable, Malcolm decided to stand down.

"Good." Seemingly mollified, Samael turned his back to his father, leaning on the handrail with all his weight and watching his hands. If he had hoped Malcolm would leave him alone after their fruitful discussion, he was once again mistaken.

"Seriously? You're not going to even ask about her?" Malcolm threw in a pungent comment once it was clear the conversation was over from Samael's side. "Apparently not," he quietly answered his own question when it was clear he would wait for his son's reply until dawn. "What about your child, I wonder? Are you going to ask about your child at least? Whether it's survived whatever happened at the Sundermount?" he mercilessly poked into his son for whom every his word was like a dagger plunging into his gut. They were getting to the very bottom of the reason why Hawke preferred cowering in Ocella's stabling instead of being with the one who had suffered unimaginable horrors on his behalf. Because how could she ever forgive him? Where he would even begin his penance? How could he gaze into her eyes ever again knowing her clan he wished dead myriad of times was now finally gone? "Hmpf, that's what I thought," Malcolm snorted in contempt when only silence was his son's reply as he gnawed his fingers into the handrail without a single word regarding what'd been said. "Coward," Malcolm muttered, already on his way away from his son. "After all, I hear it runs in your family, lad," he kept grouching, then he spat out and angrily drew apart the nets hanging in his way. Maybe it was that last comment said in fury, those few words said in self-criticism so unlike to his father, that finally managed to open Samael's mouth.

"Father…!" he cried out, turning around in panic.

Malcolm halted, but left his back turned to his son, as if he was hesitant whether to keep walking or not, even though he secretly smiled to himself that his son might have the courage Malcolm never had after all. Slowly sauntering back, watching closely Samael's upset face, Malcolm decided not to torment him any longer and replied.

"Merrill is fine. Maker, I'm not sure whether all her pointy-eared Creators stood by her today, but she's fine. I managed to stop the bleeding and although she's lost quite a lot of blood, her vitals are stable. There's much more strength in that tiny elven body of hers than what meets the eye." He hesitated before continuing. "As for the child – it's fine as well as far as I can tell. It's still only a minute fetus right now, but I could already sense its essence and will to live."

Throughout his father's speech, Samael withheld his breath and only now he started reveling in shallow breaths again, feeling as if his heart was about to leave his body. "And is she—" he quietly asked, replacing the words with vehement gestures. Luckily for him, Malcolm was near to a clairvoyant indeed when it came to his son.

"Yes," he quietly confirmed, "she's been asking about you the whole time, you ass. I suggest you gather whatever courage you've got left after today and kick yourself into her cabin right now." Obviously, Malcolm saw right through him and perfectly understood his current frame of mind that was bordering between insanity and disbelief that anything, anything at all, would ever feel right after today.

"And Fawn?" Samael felt obligated to ask about the Hero of Fereldan after he got beaten up at the Sundermount – once again because of Hawke and his recklessness.

"I believe the mages Leske spoke of were put to use and patched him up while I tended to Merrill. Since the elf's orchestrating an opulent dinner later today where you're cordially invited to – I suppose he's not dying any time soon." Malcolm meekly grinned and Samael hesitantly returned that grin.

"All right. See you at dinner then," Samael nodded and took a few deep breaths as if bracing himself for the inevitable. Then the father and the son parted as they both had business to take care of.

oOo

After Malcolm's departure, Merrill refused to see anyone. The only one she would like to have near her now was nowhere to be found and thus the bleakest and the most macabre thoughts started whirling through her head as she was curled up on a narrow lounge, facing the crackling fireplace. Her hands were thoughtlessly roaming around her belly and Merrill was trying to convince herself that she actually felt the baby moving within her, feeling the warmth of fire, the strength of her love she had already developed for it though she knew about the child only for a few hours. A triple knock on her door, however subtle it was, made her jerking in fright and watching the door as if a fresh Templar platoon was supposed to walk through it and finish what had been started at the Dalish camp.

"Merrill…" a soothing voice reached her ears through the closed door. "May I come in?" the same voice was now getting uncertain of whether his owner would be welcome in lady's cabin or not. After a moment of silence, just precisely when Hawke was turning away, clearly intending to leave in shame, the door creaked in hinges and there she was – standing right in front of him in soberly tailored white gown that could have been worn to either bed or a ball. "May I come in?" Hawke rather repeated his question when she was nothing but looking at him in silence. Wordlessly, Merrill stepped aside, so the visitor could walk through the narrow corridor leading into the lavish cabin; the biggest one on the ship.  
>Glancing about the cabin; the tapestries hanging on the walls, furs covering the floors, a few stone steps leading up on a platform where a comfortable iron bed was installed, a stone fireplace well-stocked with logs and finally distant corner separated from the rest of the cabin by a diaphanous divider, so its purpose was kind of ruined, Hawke seemed satisfied with the level of comfort that was at his disposal given his long-term dealings with the Orzammar Carta.<p>

"I was told you're feeling better…?" Samael opened the conversation with this neutral half-question once he settled down on a sofa in front of the fireplace and Merrill nestled down on her lounge again, fidgeting and suddenly she avoided Hawke's gaze that swiftly canvased her whole body and stopped at her face and rosy cheeks flushed from the warmth coming from fire.

"Much better," she faltered and moved on a bit, nervously biting her lower lip afterward. Unlike her, Hawke motionlessly sat on the edge of his sofa, his body leaning forward, his legs apart and he was supporting himself on the elbows that were pressed against knees. "Where have you been?" she suddenly asked a coy question as if it burnt her for hours. "When you were gone, I thought—" she shrugged and looked elsewhere.

"You thought what?" he gently spurred her on continuing. He needed to hear it out loud from her mouth after all. So why put off the inevitable, right? Right. Here he sat, paralyzed by what would be the perfect ending of the worst day of his life. He had no illusions – he deserved the blame Merrill was about to lie down to his feet, he deserved the scorn and eternal hate for his arrogance and stupidity to pretend to be someone he was not. He deserved to lose her and lose his child for he had been systematically destroying everything he touched and many times even on purpose.

Merrill suddenly stood up from her seat as if she was choking in it, pacing a little bit before she halted in front of Hawke who seemed clearly puzzled by her restlessness.  
>"Hawke, you must hear what I have to say," she quietly started talking and made a hesitant step toward him. "Please listen and then you can decide what should happen next. I won't object to any verdict you might pass upon my head," she proclaimed with her voice trembling in emotions. Needless to say that at this point Hawke ceased to understand anything what'd been said so far. Wasn't it him who was supposed to be judged here and embrace any sentence she would see fit for his crimes? Not the other way around?<p>

"Merrill, I…" he shook his head in confusion and no other word came out of his mouth, though he tried.

"Hawke, please," she silence him with a single glance, "just listen. Xenon asked me to come to the Emporium this morning in a very urgent matter and I went, ordering my clan to finish packing and ready the arravels to move by midday. It was Xenon who told me what's… growing… inside me." If Samael expected any thrill or tears from her, then he saw none. It was as if this part of Merrill died along with her whole clan under that cursed mountain. Her cold-blooded narration was even more terrifying since she was apparently determined to say her whole story and leave no nuance out. "I left the Emporium in shock. Both scared and blithe by what I had heard. I intended to interrupt the coronation, to find you, to tell you…" Her voice cracked now for good but the tears that briefly shone within her eyes were pushed back again. "But the Templars snatched me off the marketplace before I could do that. They didn't beat me, yet," she continued bitterly, "but they called me names, shoved me, and humiliated me in every possible way. Told me I was nothing. Played with me the whole road back to the camp. Let me finish!" Her voice elevated in agitation when Samael clearly couldn't remain silent anymore. "And they were right. I was nothing but an elven whore to them, carrying an elf-blooded human infant no less. Then we arrived at the camp, where my people were awaiting their Keeper; not a woman that brought the wrath of all Creators down upon them. Everything was packed by then, everything was prepared for departure. The Templars took the Dalish hunters by surprise and the rest of the elves scattered in all four directions, but they couldn't run away from them. Not really. It was slaughter." Merrill clenched her eyelids in anguish and only her frantic breathing was hearable for a while. "Hawke, I must ask," she quietly continued as she calmed down enough to speak again. "Knowing what you know now, seeing what you've seen at the Sundermount - do you abhor me?" she asked a colorless question; her face pale, yet resolved to hear the truth. "Do I disgust you?" she continued and with her every new word Hawke's eyes grew bigger and bigger in shock. "You've seen what that Templar did to me," she continued in defiance and cast her eyes down as the shame of what the Templar had done to her poked its ugly head out of Merrill's seeming repose.

Somewhere between those pale features, Dalish tattoos and green eyes that shone with moisture, Hawke saw something he had seen once before in Arianni. It was the same pride of the Dalish who were always ready to bend their knee all too quickly, but not that woman. And definitely not Merrill. It was pride that was ready to be wounded by a shemlen in its unselfishness; the very same pride that would sustain Merrill's resolve to raise her child by herself should Hawke denounce both her and their child at this very moment which would be only logical as Hawke saw with his own eyes as the filthy Templar defiled what was supposed to be his and his only. It was as if Merrill counted on Hawke's pride and arrogance that would not allow him to be bound to a woman who was abused and raped. And so she stood there, unbroken even now and majestic in her pain, waiting to be spurned as she had been many times before in her life. Yet she was willing to subjugate to a trial where she was pilloried by a man who swore to protect her with his life and failed no less.

There was no adequate response to such nobility, such pureness and goodness within this woman that overshadowed each and every one of the ghastly moments of Hawke's day. He threw himself to his knees in front of her, not daring to touch her, and she stood upon him beautiful and serene in her glowing white gown that seemed to have light on its own as she placed her hands upon his head bent in submission. Only now Samael finally realized that it was him all along who was being put on the trial and judging from the hands gently uplifting his face upward – he was forgiven.


	25. Chapter 25

The opulent dinner had gone by just as Hawke needed to – it was loud, profligate and long enough to allow him to put himself together after that emotional trial by fire he had deservedly undergone. Merrill timidly refused to attend to the extravagant event and Hawke left her only very much grudgingly in her cabin, but he did need to discuss with Fawn and his father their plans on where would be the best to disembark once they had Fereldan in sight. Malcolm seemed to be content with any plan as long as he was to remain by his son's side and Fawn didn't bother to hide that he had no plans whatsoever regarding his next travels which rendered Hawke to outline their next direction practically on his own while his two companions sipped their brandy and occasionally offered an opinion. It was past midnight when Malcolm yawned and half-asleep swayed to his cabin with murmured good night. The spacious dining room was all but deserted at this hour and Hawke heaped all his maps and vellums into one disarranged pile, still lost deep in thought of what would tomorrow bring for them. The plan had been agreed upon, destination was set and he was tired, Maker, tired like a… child. Once Hawke's mind went back to children and stuff, his face turned grim again. He was going to become a father. He, for whom it took years to learn how to care for anyone else apart from himself. He, who was capable to take down a full-grown man in two heartbeats, but who was next to clueless when it came to those obnoxious miniature people. Why everyone seemed so fascinated by them anyway? If they don't sleep, babies scream, they poop, they eat, then they poop again. If he was going to take on such a responsibility, then his wild and glorious days were over for good. He was done for.

Lost in these joyless thoughts, Hawke didn't realize at first that Fawn had been watching him in silence the entire time from his seat by the lingering fire he didn't bother to revive. "Do you want to tell me something, by any chance?" the elf asked an uppity question when their eyes met. Only now the Champion realized there was an apology expected from him.

"Dear Fawn," Hawke started, but his jovial tone and mask vanished as quickly as he had put it on. "I'm sorry for what I've said earlier. I shouldn't have… You know…" he faltered and scratched his head, looking about for his katana. He found it lying on the table across the chamber, half-drawn from its scabbard, as he considered necessary to keep it within his reach at all times while he was a guest on this ship. What could he say – he didn't trust those stunted rascals and lyrium smugglers any more than he had trusted his lyrium business partners in Kirkwall. Moreover; he had no illusions about the Carta as he found their smiles fake and their complaisance temporary to say the least.

"Has anyone ever told you that you really suck at this?" Fawn smirked, then searched Hawke's anxious face and obviously decided that the Champion was punished enough. Above all that, Fawn did understand to what Hawke had been going through ever since he fled from the city that was bending its knee before him and his might at one second, then chasing him around a second later like the worst criminal, howling for his blood like ravenous rats. It was the feeling comparable to what Fawn had felt when he was leaving the burning Amaranthine behind, leaving his lover in arrears to take all the blame for Fawn's treachery and theft. Once the Crow's face came unbidden to Fawn's mind again, his face darkened and he reminded himself that there was at least one loose end Hawke wasn't aware of. "Hawke, we need to talk," he whispered and his face gained an undecipherable expression. Before Samael could reply; his face already warped by suspicion, another and not entirely unfamiliar voice entered the conversation.

"You don't want to discuss me, I trust? Since you haven't revealed me so far to our fallen Champion of Kirkwall, one would wonder just how much exactly you wish me to succeed in my endeavor, my dear Warden." With his entrée dramatic, his presence most unexpected since both Samael and Fawn jumped up from their seats, looking at him as if a ghost had just walked in on them. The Crow seemed satisfied with the impression he had made upon his arrival.

"Zevran…!" was all the Hero of Fereldan was able to breathe out as he stumbled backwards from the Crow. Until this very moment he had been nurturing tiny hope that they had lost the Crow somewhere in Kirkwall, and if not in the city, then they surely managed to outsmart him when they embarked on the Carta ship no one expected in these waters.

"Did you _know about this_?!" Hawke lashed out at the poor Fawn in shock and stepped away from him, sizing him up with widened amber eyes that turned fiery as if the Hero was no one but a disguised enemy the whole time. Fawn started realizing only now that his hesitation to tell Hawke they probably had a Crow on their tail might just cost both him and Hawke the highest price.

"Oh, I assure you, our foxy Warden indeed knew about me, my dear Champion," Zevran rudely replied instead of Fawn who just seemed unable to utter a sound. "Though I reckon he didn't expect me _here_, per se," he laughed a wicked quiet laughter that seemed to corrupt the air. Only now Samael realized the Crow had been cunningly moving to position himself precisely between him and his katana still innocently lying on the table where it was as useful to him as a pouch of pebbles.

"Hawke, I can explain!" Fawn intervened in despair and made a few steps forward, so the three of them were now standing in a loose triangle.

"The time for words is long gone, my dear Warden," Zevran quietly remarked and threw the katana sheathed in scabbard to Hawke who caught it in surprise. "What?" the Crow laughed once again his terrible laughter. "I may have come to kill you, Hawke, but I shall do so with all dignity and respect I have for you. I certainly don't intend to slay you like cattle." Oddly enough, this bragging and Crow's blatant self-confidence had rather tranquilizing effect on Hawke for that was his first obvious advantage over Zevran Arainai.

"Zevran, it doesn't have to be this way!" Fawn stepped in between the two rivals the moment Hawke unsheathed his katana with chilling serenity and threw the scabbard away without a single word.

"Oh, this is where you're wrong, mon amour. This is precisely how it _must_ be." With a resigned sigh of irony, Zevran gracefully unsheathed his twin blades and then carefully examined the single long blade in Hawke's hand, wondering where Champion's rapier was, or at least a dagger for his other hand that remained empty. Hearing legends of Champion's superior dual weapon skills and ambidextrous abilities to master any blade ever made, this detail left him perplexed indeed. On the other hand, one incautious step of the Crow would render him headless and Zevran in no way underestimated his opponent. "Either way," Zevran glanced at his former lover, "please be patient, my Warden. You're next." The Crow granted Fawn such a strange smile full of agony that Hawke was now the one wondering who this man really was and what was it between him and the Hero of Fereldan.

"I'm ready." Samael felt obligated to point out since the elves seemed to be too busy with staring at each other. "Though I would argue the point that this shall be a fair fight as you claimed it would be. Seeing that I bear no armor and you are fully dressed for the battle," Hawke once again pointed out and waited for reaction with an insidious smile on his face. No one was more surprised than the Champion when Zevran immediately and without any hesitation started unbuckling his cuirass until it thudded on the wooden floor along with his gauntlets, leaving the Crow in nothing but a war skirt, boots, and plain open-necked white shirt. Fawn had been watching all his doing with the eyes of a condemned person because Zevran's intentions were becoming clearer and clearer now. He had come here to die; and die in front of Fawn no less, though it wouldn't be Fawn's hand that would take his life. Seeing that the fight was inevitable at this point, Mahariel stepped back and he was sure no longer whether he favored Zevran or Hawke in this fight.

Samael felt as the fatigue he had been feeling moments ago was replaced by adrenaline rushing throughout his veins and he never felt more alive in past day as he was now. After all, he had two compelling reasons to win this ultimate combat; to tie up this last loose end and thus leave his old life behind him forever. Hawke made a few cautious steps sideways while Zevran mirrored him, then he stepped back, watching as Zevran was copying his every move, clearly contemplating the tactics. It seemed that hours had passed, though Fawn figured it could be only minutes, when Zevran finally made a feint and broke that circumspect initial procedure of estimating the opponent. Samael did not move in the slightest since he recognized the feint for what it was – a mere distraction to draw his response. Well, if this was the best the Crows were teaching their assassins, then he could remain calm. But calm he was not. His life together with Merrill in Fereldan was finally within his arm's reach and this Crow could mar this plan in a blink of one's eye. Seeing that his feint wasn't met with desired reaction, Zevran changed tactics.

Once again they started circling around one another for so long that it would have been absurd if this was not a fight to death. Obviously neither of the rivals was willing to make the next move because to do so was a weakness unless that first blow would be also the last one, causing such a critical injury that the fight would be over. Fawn remained motionless in the corner he had retired into and he had plenty of time to make up his mind there. He did not doubt Hawke would be the one standing victorious at the end and the coward slumbering deep within the Hero of Fereldan when it came to Zevran was perversely glad that the Champion would strike that ghost of his past back into the grave it crept from in the first place.

Suddenly the blades were cleaving the air, too fast to see. They rang out in a brassy melody of doom as they connected and Hawke shifted his balance just a second before Zevran attempted to duck and thrust one of his needle-like blades into his guts. Blocking this vicious lunge, Samael gave a gargantuan kick with all his might that sent Zevran flying backward from his superior position where he could fully utilize his two short blades against Hawke's long one that behaved rather clumsily at such short contact.

Amazingly enough, the shove didn't seem to cost the Crow any loss of balance or injury as he landed in a perfect crouched pose with his blades crossed in front of him en garde. Only his cat-like eyes sparkling with fury and heaving chest gave out his agitation that his master move was not met with success. This was Hawke's second clue and second advantage over the Crow – the Champion considered the assassin as merely one of the many who had ever attempted for his life and he intended to get rid of him as he had gotten rid of everyone else – with precision and prudence. The Crow on the contrary took this fight clearly personally and that was as bad as if he had lost already.

Hawke now fully focused on his opponent and despite Zev's graceful movement and unrelenting posture, something had obviously changed. The more Samael watched and analyzed the Crow, the more he was sure that his rival did not emerge unscathed from that kick he had sustained straight into his torso. Maybe a few cracked ribs? Moreover, Samael didn't notice before, but there were dark circles beneath Crow's eyes and his face and body divulged the emotional torment he had been experiencing for over a year now. All these details were crucial to Hawke's next steps and he decided to go offensive at this point. Yes; there was a gap between the rivals now and whoever would dare closing that gap first would be automatically vulnerable, but it was a risk Hawke was willing to take.  
>Making up his mind after all that evaluating, planning, considering and rejecting tactics, Samael danced forward, only to fall back again. Even though he tried again and again, he failed to draw Zevran out of his safe zone. He continued his dance, forward and back, forward and back, faster and faster, taunting the opponent, accelerating until he seemed in both places at once, then continued forward, letting the katana to flash out, but the Crow was no longer there, though his blade left a long slash on Hawke's forearm he had managed to shield himself with after he realized this was an obvious trap and he had foolishly fallen victim to it. So, the Crow was quite a poser after all. The first blood had been drawn, but Samael seemed tranquilized by it – which left Zevran wondering again. Loitering just out of the reach of Crow's blades, his head lolling as if he was asleep, Hawke seemed completely indifferent to his bleeding wound. Despite appearances, he realized only all too well that his dancing activity had cost him. But the kick Zevran failed to dodge had cost him dearly as well, since it was clear now that the elf was injured. Catching this detail, Samael smiled. And it was an ominous and horrible smile Fawn hoped to never be directed in his way.<p>

But to the death this combat was, so it continued, though so far the rivals seemed to be equal in both skills and wit. Zevran was no fool. He felt very well that at least two ribs had been cracked and this fight would end up for him not the way he wanted the world to remember him. But there would be no surrender. Since there was no point in putting much effort into defense anymore, he decided to focus on dealing as much damage as he could before he fell.

Dying. Zevran had never given much thought into it. He just hoped like any other Crow that he would go down fighting and left a beautiful young corpse behind. And that was about to happen soon no doubt, so really – there was no need to worry.

One last deadly combination of feints, lunges, leaps and thrusts remained to be used by the Crow; the combination he very rarely used for it was utterly draining, yet that was unimportant since every time he used it the opponent ended up rattling in a pool of his own blood while Zevran stood victorious. He calmed himself, pushing away the pain that was pulsing within him with every breath he took, and he called upon all his training, all the vaunted fighting techniques the Crows were so proud about, all the Gods he had spurned so many, many years ago.

Samael was able to see that the Crow was preparing for one last push and oddly enough the elf didn't seem concerned that it might not end well for him. Their eyes locked into one long gaze, but Zevran's eyes then wandered almost against his will to the dark corner where Fawn had been absently standing, watching, and despairing that this clash would end up the way Zevran intended and he would be able to nothing but watch and let it happen. As if confirming that Fawn had indeed nothing to say about what was about to happen, the Crow lunged forward without any further hesitation. The intensity of his attack was overwhelming. There was a moment when Hawke wavered and doubted he would survive this combat and Zevran as if capable to read his mind pushed even harder, frustrated that Hawke was not even still standing without his guts spilling on the floor, but he vigorously parried all his best figures, saw right through his most devious feints while the katana in his hand was swinging in long deadly arcs that could have easily cut the elf in halves or at least tear him a new one. When the frustration reached its peak, Zevran leapt. He was flying through the air with his sun-kissed hair flowing past him, he even seemed to hover for a fleeting moment, only then he dropped down directly at Hawke with his merciless blades aimed and eyes blazing in suicidal frenzy. Maybe it was a sudden movement within the shadows; maybe it was an almost imperceptible sound of fright that convinced Hawke not to clip Crow's wings right in the air with his katana that very much thirsted blood at this point of combat. Instead, Samael stepped aside and finished Zevran's ultimate leap when he slammed him hard to the ground, knocking both blades out of his hands and crushing his neck under his boot. He deftly swung the katana through the air, grasping it with both his hands as he positioned it directly above Crow's heart, ready to perform that one last remaining move to end this fight.

Even though he was clearly suffocating, the defeated Crow managed to rasp, "Do it. Finish it. You'll be only setting me free." And the Champion indeed intended to oblige such a direct request and grant him a quick death for cruel he was not. Just as he was about to lean on the katana and claim his assassin's life, the heart-rending scream came.

"No!"

Throughout the whole combat Fawn had been fighting his own inner battle and finally the lover within him triumphed over the Hero of Fereldan. He no longer cared about the decorum nor did he care about his pride. There lay a man whom he deemed worthy of his love and protection, staring up at him with a boot crashing his throat and a blade about to pierce his heart and that man cried. He had never seen Zevran crying. Not once.

Hastily crossing the room and kneeling down by the Antivan assassin who still struggled for air, Fawn grasped Hawke's boot and attempted to remove it off Crow's neck. If anything; Samael just pressed the boot down even more vigorously, not believing his eyes.  
>"Hawke, please!" Fawn looked up in despair while Zevran's body kept writhing in agony. After such forlorn plea, it would appear that Hawke was indeed the villain and aggressor there. Despite his better judgment, he removed his boot off Zevran's neck. Zevran started retching and gasping for air as well as vehemently trying to keep the other elf away from him. At this point, Hawke was simply befuddled. He was not even sure whether he wanted to know what exactly had been going on. Fawn's ashen face failed to reveal any emotion other than deep turmoil as he patiently deflected all Crow's attempts to drive him away, then pressed his flailing arms to his sides until the Crow lay in his arms, panting, limp, too exhausted to struggle anymore, and too weak-willed to push his stubborn savior away. Cradling Zevran's body within his arms and clearly considering the words on how to put the awkward situation for the Champion, Fawn looked up into Hawke's face. If he was afraid he would find nothing but contempt there, then he was right, since Samael was convinced this farce had its master-plotter and Fawn had already proven himself in this area of expertise more than once.<p>

"Hawke, just let me explain," Fawn shook his head, clinging to the body within his arms with despair Hawke hadn't seen in him ever before. Samael now positively felt as if he was the guilty one here; a bad man who was about to kill an innocent from the look on Fawn's face. "I know what this must look like to your eyes, but—"

"Look, Fawn," Samael interrupted him and took a deep breath, keeping his katana deliberately lingering right above Zevran's heaving chest. "I do not know nor do I care what the fuck is going on here right now. But I do know that the men who are foolish enough to make an attempt on my life wind up dead or wishing they were dead. This Crow will fare according to my philosophy. More than that I will not say. Now step aside and let me finish this!" He tried to ask nicely, but it came out like a harsh command instead. Fawn was sure that Hawke would not ask him twice; he would finish the Crow off right where he was no matter what Mahariel did now.

_No matter what he did now._

Fawn was enlightened by a sudden idea as he carefully released Zevran from his embrace and rose to his full height, deliberately stepping between the Champion and his assassin and this way Hawke could have his katana pointed either at the Hero of Fereldan or not pointed at all. He chose not at all even though his patience was strained by now and his fury was rising.

"Anything you want." Fawn ensnared Hawke into the bottomless depths of his black eyes, though Samael didn't understand a word of what the elf was saying. "Anything you want; anything you would require of me as a payment for your deed, you shall have," the elf continued. "Those are your exact words, Hawke, after I saved your father and returned him into your life. A life for a life. I implore you to give me this man's life. Do that and I shall consider your debt paid in full."

"Cruel to the very end, my dear Warden…" Zevran managed to wheeze as he languidly brought himself to kneel and not lie there like a corpse. That was just insulting. "You should hurry if you want to take my life yourself. There will be nothing left to take soon," he spluttered in spite and his face twisted in hatred as much as in pain. His blood sprayed the floor as a terrible cough took over his body.

"Keep quiet…!" Fawn hissed over his shoulder, not taking his eyes off Hawke's infuriated face.

"Damn it, Fawn!" As expected, Hawke burst out shouting once he realized the full extent of what was Mahariel asking of him. But the arcane warrior remained motionless, adamant about his reward for Malcolm's life and his eyes kept flickering from the lowered katana to Hawke's face and back again. He started timidly believing that his plan might have worked when Samael tossed the katana down to his feet in frustration and started pacing around both elves, casting vengeful glances in their way. The Hero of Fereldan had won indeed. The Champion turned his back at them several times, his fingers twitching, only to stalk back to them and kicking his splendid weapon out of his way. He reminded of a predator whose prey was stuck in an iron cage he couldn't get through.

"Well?" Fawn impatiently required a definite answer. At this push, Samael rushed him and his face was inches away from Fawn's; his voice was so low Fawn could hardly make out the words, when Hawke slowly said with a deadly menace,

"Keep him away from me!" Then he picked up his katana and thrust it back into sheathe in such vigor that it wasn't hard to guess whom he would be rather thrusting the blade into. "I warn you, Fawn. If I catch him with even a fork pointed my way, or if he defies me in any way while we're on this ship – perhaps not in deed, only in demeanor – I'll waste him, Fawn. I'll waste him and I'll force _you_ to watch. Do we understand each other?"

His eyes pure ice, his jaws set, Fawn was contemplating the right answer. He was not spoken to like this for a very long time, yet he forced himself to see this situation with Hawke's eyes. An assassin followed him from Kirkwall, boarded in secrecy the ship, then tried to kill him. Under these circumstances Mahariel really couldn't blame Hawke for lack of willingness to let the Crow live.

"We do understand each other," Fawn quietly confirmed as meekly as he could manage.

"All right then," Samael calmed down a bit, seeing that Mahariel was genuinely grateful for Hawke's mercy. "Do you need, you know, any help with him?" Samael quietly asked since Zevran's breathing turned into shallow rasping sounds as if his lungs were torn to shreds and tiny bubbles of bright red blood were appearing in the corner of his mouth since the cracked bone or its splinter must have pierced the lung after all.

"Go back to Merrill, Hawke. She needs you. And," Fawn glanced at his ever still kneeling protégé, "thank you," he whispered and gracefully bowed his head deep in gratitude. When he straightened up again, he and the man whose life now belonged to him were alone.

oOo

"Am I to be ignored for the rest of the night?" Fawn finally broke down that wall of silence that became unbearable for him. They both had been quiet the entire time when Fawn was settling the wounded Crow down in his own cabin, leaving him in nothing but small clothes on the bed to examine his body and mend the cracked ribs as they appeared to be the utmost pressing matter.

Zevran, lethargically staring into the ceiling the whole time, turned his head away from his caretaker who humiliated him in the worst possible way – he saved his life.

"Obviously yes," Fawn replied to his own question and nudged the Crow, so he would sit up in the bed, and he did so rather brutally, since even though accustomed to pain, Zevran winced and bit his lip enough to draw blood to black out the pain in his chest. A tiny bit mollified by that voiceless expression of suffering, Fawn's hands softened their touch on Crow's tanned skin as he started bandaging his torso with clean strips of white linen to keep the freshly mended ribs protected.

"Why, Fawn?" His face turned away from him still, now obscured by disheveled blonde hair, Zevran's voice sounded as if he had been shouting himself hoarse, asking the same question over and over again for hours. He rarely called Mahariel with his first name and the fact he did so now was alarming on its own. Fawn's hands stopped working, then they slowly finished bandaging and tightened the knots rather loosely, so the bandages wouldn't pressure the ribs much. There was no direct answer to Crow's direct question. Why indeed. Why was not Fawn able to watch him dying? Perhaps for the same reason why was Zevran unable to stay away from him when Fawn was near his death after his stampede from North back to Kirkwall.

"Because I have faith," Fawn whispered and carefully helped the Crow to lie down again, neatening the bandages. His white hand then lingered on a Dalish pendant depicting the Dread Wolf he had given the Crow what seemed like eons ago. It was astonishing that even after everything that had happened between the two of them Zevran would wear it just as Fawn remembered it – hung around his neck on short leather string that turned black with constant usage.

"Faith in what?" Zevran asked when Fawn didn't seem prone to clarify.

"I… Faith in… We… I must go now." So unlike to him, Fawn faltered and fled in the middle of their conversation.

"Warden!" Zevran wearily called out to him, trying to prompt himself on elbows, however painful that was. "Faith in what?" he ardently demanded a reply, but only the door quietly clicking as the Hero left the small cabin was his reply. He collapsed back into the bed and slowly pulled the thick blanket over his head.


	26. Chapter 26

Merrill dreamt a restless dream that echoed the events of fire and doom beneath the Sundermount. Ever since his return from the late dinner that deteriorated into a sparring practice, Hawke watched over the sleeping elf. He had hastily tended to his wound, noting that it appeared to be much deeper than he had originally thought since it refused to stop bleeding. Oddly enough, since his crippled arm was the one that blocked the vicious lunge, he felt pain indeed, but not as much pain as he should have with such long deep slash through the flesh.

Just as he was considering waking up Leske and asking for help, Merrill stirred from her slumber and the first thing she saw after the slaughter that was replaying within her dreams was… more blood. Hawke failed to hide the arm covered with it behind his back in time and the towel in his other hand that was redder than whiter spoke for itself. "What now?" Merrill sighed while climbing out of bed and white flesh of her body flashed within darkness as she shrouded her nudity in a night gown that lie on the bed. She sleepily staggered toward Hawke who, for some reason, started simpering. With her one eyebrow raised in annoyance, she reached for the incriminated arm and only then she noticed Hawke was leering into her cleavage that wasn't quite covered by the fluid fabric. Morosely nudging him with an elbow to remind him to act like an adult, she squeaked in surprise when Hawke roughly grabbed her into embrace to get his hourly dose of Merrill he seemed to require frequently nowadays. There was nothing epicene about Hawke; nothing ultimately gorgeous or superb at all. Even though not built to wield deadly broadswords long as a man himself, he was all male – his figure lean and chiseled by years of training and his fiery eyes and long black always disheveled hair just underlined the savagery and might slumbering deep within that would not be harnessed by anyone and anything. Until, that is, a woman appeared in his life who seemed resilient to all his worst features and hopelessly in love with the best of them.

What one woman would consider in alarm as an attempt for rape, Merrill assessed as an intimate moment she'd been waiting for so long as she went blissfully limp in his arms, credulously snuggling to him with abandon she gravely missed for many days now. "Whom did you fight now, ma vhenan?" she murmured a question.

"Ghosts," he replied with a brief chuckle and only then he let go of her and almost proudly displayed his injured arm that indeed needed an attention of a healer. Watching her face frowning as she examined the wound, his sneer slowly faded; not to mention that the pale arm interlaced with thick dark veins was spooky on its own even without a bleeding slash.

"Perhaps you'd like to tell me what's happened in Kirkwall." Merrill shortly looked up from the injury, catching Hawke's eyes. If she expected him to resist as usual; if she thought he would evade the question just as he had used to, then Merrill was pleasingly surprised that even though Hawke's face turned sombre, he started talking nonetheless.

"As you could gather from what's been said so far, it didn't go well. Certainly didn't end well," he slowly started confessing. "If anything, I was crowned to be king of all fools," Hawke bitterly continued and glanced at the black ragged crown set on a night table by the bed. "The poison failed to set me free from Meredith in time and from the moment she disrupted the ceremony it all went straight to hell. I also failed to realize the full extent of Anders' underground resistance, hence the explosions, and on top of all that my business partners managed to look through my stratagem regarding the lyrium business contracts and attempted to murder me. Sadly, all at once."

"What about the lyrium contracts?" Merrill asked seemingly casual question as she examined in satisfaction the mended flesh and only a thin pale scar meandering on Hawke's skin could tell where the ugly gash was once she cleaned the skin of all blood.

"I kind of, ehm," Hawke coughed in sudden uneasiness, "I sold the contracts to everybody." He cast his eyes down in shame that could have been easily mistaken for modest pride. To tell the truth, he had utterly enjoyed outfoxing those opportunists and back-stabbers. "I sold the contracts to _everyone_ and _everyone _has paid me the full price," he clarified, emphasizing the important words when Merrill's face showed nothing but confusion.

"Does this mean that we are rich now, ma vhenan?" she asked the next logical question in cautious disbelief and innocence only Merrill possessed. It didn't slip Hawke's attention that she used the word "we" which was very reassuring on its own.

"Well," Samael rubbed his chin in pretended contemplation, "we've been rich for quite some time now. "Now I daresay we are _awfully_ rich," Hawke dryly stated and wiggled the fingers on his mended arm. "And, of course, if anyone realizes I'm still alive, we'll be both awfully rich and dead."

"I've heard Malcolm saying something about you feigning your own death," Merrill quietly remarked and seated herself on the fur by Hawke's armchair he had been sitting in.

"That would be the truth of it," he nodded and scowled a little.

"But, Samael, what about your estate? What about the house? All those beautiful paintings, weapons, furniture, vases, carpets…! Things that your ancestors have gathered! They meant you to have it – not leave it behind like someone else's junk!" Merrill's eyes narrowed in disapproval as she started enumerating all those precious things Hawke had left happily behind. He just watched her outburst in silence. A woman who owned things that could be squeezed into one small arravel before she met him was not able to understand his motives. The things he had owned ended up owning him and leaving them all behind liberated him in ways she couldn't fathom.

Long was Samael staring down into her lovely face in sacred silence as warm waves of peace and certainty washed over him. "I believe I have everything I need right here with me," he smiled at her and lifted her up so she could straddle his lap. Fidgeting there for a while which was delightful, then turning motionless when she cuddled against him, they fell silent for a very long time.

"Hawke… About Sundermount…" he heard her hesitant words in his right ear, but didn't bother opening his eyes. He was aware this question was coming. "I'm not exactly sure what happened toward the end, but… Is everyone… You know?" Considering her tormented words, Samael realized Merrill needed some closure. She needed to hear the truth however bestial it was and she needed to hear it from him. But what was he to tell her? That her people were slaughtered one by one apart from those few mages who were turned Tranquil instead? Hawke remembered as Fawn closely examined every each one of them and then cut their throats while almost inaudibly humming some slow wailing tune in Elvish and thus sending their souls to their Creators. For some this would be a cold-blooded murder, but both Hawke and Mahariel knew it was an act of mercy for one of the last sons of Arlathan would not leave his brethren to waste away in this half-existence. Did Merrill really need to know all the gory details?

"I'm sorry, Merrill. They are all dead." His quiet gentle words were terminal and crushed the Dalish Keeper with all their force and tragedy, but Hawke felt oddly impassive to her wails and cries that followed after that brutal statement. Her pain would fade. His shame would keep him sane and focused on building a new life for both of them, and their child, far away from the place they were not happy at. And so they kept clinging to one another in silence that was interrupted just by her dissipating sobs, hoping in a future that might not be there for them, but there was always fools' hope to be found in hearts of both humans and elves.

oOo

Next three days passed in peace and quiet. The ship ploughed relentlessly through dark cold waters of Waking Sea and Leske proved himself to be an attentive and discrete host who knew when to speak and when to shut up. Hawke saw only a very little of his few companions as he found himself utterly content to spend the days and nights with Merrill; sometimes in gregarious debates, other time in silence or intimate confessions spoken in a low voice. But whatever Merrill did; however hard she tried to seduce Hawke into intimate confessions of carnal manner, he fended all her attempts right off with stone expression on his face and all her endeavor ended up the very same way – with a paternal kiss on her forehead and his arms encircling her in an embrace that was just as soothing as it was frustrating.

Zevran hadn't been doing any better than Merrill as he preferred to dwell in a confined cabin in contemplation, imprisoned in his self-imposed solitary, since Fawn appeared for only as long as to bring him meals for one and then again disappear without a word or at least a glance in Crow's direction.

The situation became unbearable for Merrill an evening before the planned arrival to Fereldan and she decided to confront her unwilling lover who cared for her with ridiculous diligence, but sadly for Merrill that was also the point where her lover's efforts ended. It took nothing but one look at the opulent late supper Samael had carried into the cabin to set Merrill off. She bolted out of bed, clearly intending to make a dramatic scene that would be crowned with bursting into tears and pointless shouting.

"I don't understand," was his confused reply to all her accusations, but his downcast eyes told her otherwise.

"You're refusing to look at me; let alone touch me! You lied about Sundermount! You liar! Hypocrite! You no longer want me! I trusted to all you've said, but it was nothing but—" A knock on the door loud enough to be audible in all that high-pitched mewling and blaming interrupted her and Merrill threw herself on the bed in frustration.

"This conversation is far from over," Hawke finally got space to actually say something to her as he strode toward the door to open them.

"Hawke…" The visitor quietly addressed him when they stood face to face. "Troubles?" Fawn asked with a weak smile, glancing into the cabin before his gaze returned to the Champion.

"You can say that," Samael sighed and rubbed his eyes, stepping into the narrow corridor and closing the door behind his back.

"I won't keep you then. I wanted to give you this," Fawn handed over an envelope to Hawke who took it and looked at Mahariel with a question written all over his face. "You are to open it once you have Fereldan land beneath your feet again – not before."

"So," Samael's eyes kept flickering from Fawn's gaunt face to the envelope and back. "Is this a good-bye then?" For some reason, Hawke felt something was terribly wrong, but couldn't put his finger on it.

"You can say that," Fawn faintly nodded in agreement and he unwittingly used the same laconic words like Hawke before. Then he bowed his head with a subtle elegance and turned around to keep his promise and leave Hawke to his business.

"Fawn, wait, is everything… all right?" Hawke managed to catch his sleeve, now positively perplexed.

"Everything is the way it's meant to be," Fawn slowly replied as if replying to somewhat different question. "Good night," he gently squeezed Hawke's hand, his eyes lingering on Hawke's worried face as if he intended to say more, but decided not to. "Get some sleep, my friend," Fawn's whisper was barely audible as he freed himself from Samael's grip and walked away as if he was nothing but a shadow of the Hero of Fereldan.

Playing with the envelope in his hand and still musing over the visit that was just as unexpected as it was disturbing; Hawke returned to the cabin and thoughtlessly sat on the bed by Merrill who clearly decided to pout. When he realized she would not talk to him, he just grabbed a cloak and intended to cool his overloaded mind on upper decks, and at that point Merrill decided to look at him. It was a long hurt stare; the very same Hawke was afraid to see on her face ever since Sundermount.

"Merrill, you need to help me out here," he shook his head in unease, throwing the cloak back where he had taken it. "I don't know how to… treat you. How to talk to you. I look at you, I see your pain, I see it in your eyes. All those memories of everything that's happened between the time I brought you to the Kirkwall alienage and what's happened beneath Sundermount a few days back. With this said, I can nothing but wonder why are you still right here beside me." He faltered and threw his arms sideways. Not able to withstand looking at her any longer, he turned his back at her and slammed his hands hard into the dresser.

"Hawke, it's not like this," she peeped when she started to understand. She was aware of her own deep wounds that no healer could possibly ever mend, but in her selfish pain she overlooked his.

"Do you think I don't know?" he wouldn't let her elaborate on that thought. "Do you think I'm not aware of what nearly happened as we spoke here in this very place right after Sundermount?" he mirthlessly laughed and whirled around to face her. "One wry look at you, one badly chosen word, a mere hint that I no longer desire your company or that I may blame you a little for anything what's happened, and you'd be gone for good from my life at that precise moment along with our child. It was my last chance to repent and repent I did on my knees in front of you. What more do you want from me?" he howled in angst and sank his fingers into his already tousled hair.

"But that Templar at Sundermount—" she timidly raised an objection.

"That Templar at Sundermount should have been dying for seven weeks and not seven minutes for what he's done to you!" he all but screamed her silent, ripped the blade he'd been constantly wearing by his hip out of its sheathe and cut in halves the tall yellowish burning candles that were stuck in a candelabra. The candles remained just as they were for a fleeting moment, then they swayed and quietly thudded on the floor, sizzling and smoking as they went out one by one. A ringing silence then followed during which Hawke could hear his heartbeat thumping within his head. "I'm scaring you," Samael realized when he calmed down after his outburst and looked at Merrill who didn't dare move as she watched him with poorly hidden anxiety. "I apologize. That's the last thing I want."

Merrill seemed to have no answer for him as she gracefully climbed out of bed and approached him. She took her time, sauntering, looking about herself, until she reached him.

"What am I to do?" he whispered and closed his eyes when he felt her cold hand on his face. "Please tell me what I am to do now?" he searched her face, watching her as she returned his gaze in silence; waiting. He knew that look. He loved that look. He kissed her, slowly, tenderly, only too aware of her reaction that seemed rather... agressive. Even though he had made it perfectly clear it was entirely up to her how far this kiss would go, Hawke found himself lying on his back in bed with Merrill fiercely ripping the shirt off him and her own night gown off herself at the same time. "Wait, wait…" he breathed out between two deep kisses and gasped when he realized her lips found new source of entertainment on his neck; nibbling, licking and biting their way down. "What's this about?" he attempted to hold her away, but she wouldn't let him. Instead, she pulled down his breeches, let him slide right into her with one violent move, and only then she realized this was not the answer to her pain and humiliation. She covered her face, deeply ashamed, and rolled off of him, shivering since the unattended fireplace had died away, yet it was far more than chills in the air that gripped her tight.

Any bit of advice or help would be precious right now as Hawke gently pulled her hands away from her face, examining it for a while, and only then he rose from the bed and strolled toward the fireplace, crushing the candles beneath his boots. Confused by such unusual silence, she watched him as he revived the fire, waiting for questions that didn't come. Only when bright flames licked the logs and danced upon his bare skin did he return to bed and lay down on the back next to her, still without a word, and looking at the vaulted ceiling with his arms folded behind his head.

"Hawke…?" she briefly touched his torso, her finger following an old scar that ran along one of his ribs, when the silence prevailed.

"What is it you need me to do, Merrill?" he asked a calm question, turning his head to look at her.

"I need… I need you to help me… To forget," she incoherently tried to explain and anxiously watched whether her words would be heard and her needs understood.

"With my cock?" Samael attempted to put it into concrete terms and his eyebrow arched in irony. She reacted like a small animal would to a kick – she curled into herself and didn't reply to his boorish question. He watched her pouting with a broadening smile and only then he rolled her to her back, restraining her arms above her head and let his other hand draw tiny circles across her belly since the night gown was conveniently parted. Her chest started heaving and she whimpered when she attempted to free her hands and failed. Hawke's eyes looked black and his hair seemed crimson as the bright fire light was shining through them. "Will this help?" he whispered into her ear before he started pressing long lazy kisses along her jawline to tease her. He tasted her lips, then withdrew, brushed his lips against hers again, enjoying her straining against him, and only then he let her claim what was rightfully hers. Having her now beneath him, he brushed her hair tenderly off her face, searching for a signal that this was it; this was her desire, this was what she needed to bury the dreadful memories deep and never look at them again. At this point he decided to leave things solely in her initiative as he rolled on his back, so she could straddle him and do as she pleased. Their eyes were locked when he entered her again; slowly his hands came up to grasp her hips. Time lost its meaning and the fireplace was long cold when they found release in each other as they were slowly falling asleep in loose embrace.

"Stop fidgeting, damn it…" he murmured into her hair when the elf kept wriggling, finding the right position for sleeping.

She giggled and blurted out without thinking, "I love you!"

He quietly laughed since he recognized his Merrill once more and he looked into her eyes when he said, "You were nothing to me before you became everything. Now sleep. Go to sleep." He let his words dissolve in darkness and she would have done so if only a discrete triple knock didn't come.

"Who is it?" Hawke growled loud enough and soothingly stroked Merrill's back since she jerked and the sound had clearly frightened her.

"It's me, Leske, my lord. I'm terribly sorry about this late hour intrusion. I considered necessary to tell you we have reached the shores of Fereldan. It was as if the farts of all our stinking ancestors were propelling this damn cockleshell forward, let me tell you," he laughed with his typical crude humor. "We'll disembark in the early morning, Champion. My men and I are going to rest for remaining few hours. I suggest you do the same. Good night!" Since Leske was a man of foul words as much as of even fouler deeds, off he went immediately after he'd fulfilled his duties and looked satisfied with how smoothly the voyage had gone so far. Jarvia will be pleased.

"What ails you, ma vhenan?" Merrill asked a quiet question when Hawke sat up in the bed and kept staring at the door.

"Nothing," he absently reached for her hand and brought it to his lips. "Just something Fawn said earlier…" he glanced at her and gave her a reassuring smile, seeing that his words had upset her. "Let's sleep," he decided and threw himself back between the sheets, fishing for the giggling elf who let herself to be found only all too easily. A few minutes later the whole ship seemed to be sound asleep.

oOo

When it was clear the sleep would evade him tonight, Zevran dragged himself out of bed and sat down on a low stool in front of a mirror with his knapsack he had brought along with him. He sat there just like he was; dressed into nothing but pliant leather breeches adorned with a crimson sash tightened around his waist and with his hair loose. To say that he was restless would be an understatement. He hadn't seen the Warden in last 30 hours, even though his meals were brought to him as usual – just by dwarves this time. He considered creeping out of the cabin and going after Fawn, but the risk of running into the Champion was high. Moreover, what would he say once he had the Warden in front of him? After all, the Crow was not the one who owed an answer to a crucial question ever since Fawn quite ingloriously decided to abandon their conversation. On the edge and clueless about what to do, perplexed by Fawn's behavior and tired of what his life had become, Zevran reached for his twin blades that were exquisite even when defeated, and a whetstone, as he desperately searched for anything to keep himself busy with and therefore sane.

In the beginning he had been glancing now and then into the mirror, studying his own haggard face, interrupting his work, but then the assassin within him won and the Crow started meticulously tending to his blades as they seemed to be his only friends now. Every time he closed his eyes he was seeing again and again that pale slender hand shyly touching his pendant after Fawn had healed his cracked ribs. Zevran had considered tearing the pendant off of his neck myriad times during past year and throwing it into some bottomless pit as if that would help in his plight. Consumed by the memories, Zevran's eyes shot open in surprise when he actually _felt_ that pale slender hand on his skin, circling his shoulder in feather-like touch, creeping down across his chest, slowly crossing the bandages as the other hand slowly drew aside Zevran's blonde hair off his neck, traced the prominent curve of the collarbone and gently massaged the other shoulder. Zevran's golden eyes narrowed in involuntary pleasure and when he looked into the mirror again, he was able to make out Fawn's face emerging right next to his own in a dim light of live coals in a fireplace. The eyes met through the mirror, Fawn's white long fingers on Crow's dark skin looked almost spectral and Zevran was afraid the Warden would disappear the moment he dared turning around.

"Let's talk." Soft words merged with shadows around them as if they belonged there forever. Zevran felt a whiff of breath in his ear and all he could do; all he could have ever done, was to nod and agree with that voice of reason. As if hypnotized, he attempted to stand up; ready to do as the voice commanded him to, but Fawn's hand stopped him as the Hero of Fereldan nestled down on a wild boar's fur instead, facing the Crow with his legs crossed in front of him. Contemplating where to best start his narration, Fawn's eyebrows were knitting, but he found soon enough that pivotal moment to start with.

"As you know, I thought my life would end on the highest peak of Fort Drakon," he started when he made up his mind. "But when the deed of killing the archdemon was upon us, when the beast was wallowing in its own black blood oozing out of its fatal wounds, I didn't see the Blight ending. I didn't see how many lives would have been spared when I finally got to pierce the dragon's heart. I did not see nor did I care whether I would be glorified after I fulfilled my duty to the Wardens and gave myself to our cause. All I saw… All I saw in that freezing dreadful morning was you and all I was terrified of was losing you. I saw the same fear, same doubt in your eyes. Neither of us was ready to give up what we've found so unexpectedly in each other. But a selfless sacrifice was required of me, expected of me for the greater good, so the Fereldan would have both its king and queen after the Blight was over. I knew all this, yet one look at you at the top of Fort Drakon was enough excuse for me to force Alistair to honor the ancient Grey Warden rules that the eldest present Warden is to be the one to slay the archdemon. He didn't say a word. He just looked at me with those bright kind eyes of his that will haunt me for the rest of my life. And he went. He had lost Marric's blade sometimes in the middle of battle, so he just ripped the nearest iron sword out of some lesser darkspawn corpse, he started striding toward the dragon writhing in agonizing pain, then he started running and with all his might, all his resolve, he thrust the blade into the skull, piercing it through. The dragon let out a gut-wrenching roar before it turned inert. Each night I'm condemned to live through that single petrifying scene in my dreams. Each night I see Alistair, attempting to pull the sword out of the skull; sweat on his forehead, struggling, panting, praying, until the bright light coming from the dying Archdemon consumed him and his life essence along with him. Sometimes I hear the dragon calling me in my deams, hissing, speaking, demanding, and I wake up covered in cold sweat." Fawn's voice faded and his head bowed down in shame for his selfish choice.

"I found you kneeling and holding Alistair's still body in the middle of chaos," Zevran slowly picked up where the Hero of Fereldan left off. "The remaining darkspawn were scattered in no time after the dragon was slayed, and the dwarves were relentlessly hunting every last one of them through the burning Denerim. But I cared not."

"Yes, I remember you, carrying me back to Eamon's palace made of stone that remained intact as one of a few buildings in the city. I remember you telling me that everything would be all right. Then it all went black. Long I roamed through places darker than my soul, consumed by guilt, haunted by Alistair's sacrifice he had made in my stead."

"They told me the darkspawn taint within you is taking a hold of you, that you might not survive the night. Wynne was particularly honest about what would become of you if she was right. A ghoul, nothing but a shadow of your former self. Half-darkspawn, mindless pitiful creature worthy of nothing but a merciful dagger into the heart."

"Yes," Fawn gave the Crow a faint smile. "I think I remember you shouting something utmost indecent at Wynne. But I survived. We both did. The coronation of Anora was splendid, but then I made a cardinal mistake when I accepted her proposition to travel to Amaranthine and rebuild the Grey Wardens. That should never have come to pass." Mahariel then fell silent while Zevran impatiently awaited his next words for they were slowly getting to the part he craved to hear about the most. When Fawn remained silent, the Crow continued instead of him.

"But I went with you. I had sworn I'd follow you when your quest was over and I did," he reminded the Warden, clearly aggravated.

"That you did, Zevran," the Warden slowly confirmed and a sad smile settled on his face. "But as you know, there had been nothing but troubles in Amaranthine for us. I was the Hero, yes, but I was also an elf with painted face who brought yet another elf with painted face along with him, and no one seemed to be able to look past that. People soon feared me for some controversial rulings I've made, a conspiracy was brewing right under my nose to depose me, yet the nobles were untouchable unless they actually openly rose against me. So there I was, sitting in a throne room with my head in palms day after day; I had been seeing less and less of you and every our step was scrutinized and embellished. The more I pushed the Wardens to their former glory, the more I was defamed for my endeavor. The more I tried to remain close to you, the further away from me you seemed to be in your thoughts. I remember the day we had a fierce argument, again, and you told me in spite you were returning to Antiva and that I was a liar who tricked you to Amaranthine under empty promises."

"I shouldn't have said that," Zevran slowly shook his head, bowing it down in regret.

"Actually, you should have and you did," Fawn disagreed and this admission rendered the Crow speechless. "Nothing in Amaranthine was as we expected. Nothing was going the way we wanted. But at that time your words angered me beyond measure and you have planted a seed of doubt inside me," Fawn continued. "It was getting only worse and I persuaded myself I had to get out of there. There was a pile of reports on my desk describing what company you had been keeping, what harlots you'd been frequently seen with, and what you'd been doing when I was bound to my duties and had no time to see you. Blind with rage, sick with jealousy, I stole a few pouches of gold from the vault, planting numerous clever little hints indicating you were the thief. I finally found the courage to be once more the man I was born to be and when I left Amaranthine in early morning along with Occela, I felt reborn." Fawn became so consumed by the bitter-sweet memories that he failed to see the effect his words had on the Crow.

"So easy," Zevran whispered in disbelief. "It was so easy for you to leave me behind…! To frame me! To… I can't believe you!" he sprung up from his seat so fiercely that he managed to knock the stool over.

"It was _anything_ but easy, Zevran!" Mahariel retorted and stood up as well. "I turned back several times, struggling to leave you as I intended, when I noticed the fire broke within the city walls. I saw the smoke climbing high into skies, though I had no clue what it meant. So onward I rode and did not dare looking back."

"You have no idea that I was searching for you that morning, do you?" Zevran quietly interrupted him, his widened eyes absently staring in front of him as if being entirely lost in the memory. "I wanted to talk you into leaving Amaranthine. I wanted to apologize. To say I was sorry for our many arguments, for harsh words I didn't mean, yet I said them in ire. For men I chose to fill my lonely nights with, but who could never satiate me. But you were gone by then. You were gone and they found me in your empty quarters. They blamed me for the theft, attacked me on sight even though I was not armed. They chased me like a rabid cur through the city. No one would help me. I set the fire, hoping it would distract the attention of the whole city that was hell-bent to capture me alive so they could break my bones on a wheel as a punishment for crimes I did not commit. And you were gone," he threw his arms sideways, insanely chuckling as if that was the best part. "You were simply… Gone," he repeated and his face convulsed into hateful grimace.

"And so you've started hounding me." It was a mere observation Fawn cautiously made as his eyes wandered several times to needle blades that innocently lay within Crow's reach.

"And so I've started hounding you," Zevran sternly confirmed, crushing the words between his set jaws. He sensed only all too well Fawn's rising disquiet that was confirmed when he noticed Fawn's eyes constantly flickering toward the freshly sharpened twin blades. Not reflecting this fact in any way, he let himself to be consumed by his feelings again. "Insane with pain, betrayed, I was convinced you set me up. I see I got _that_ one right. I decided to find you and make you pay for your treachery, but not before I asked - why." With an imperceptible move, a cold blade suddenly chilled Fawn's fair skin on his neck, caressing it, as if an artist was sketching his future masterpiece.

"Go ahead," Fawn sized up the Crow with a scorching glare. "Do it. If you think this threat scares me still. I think we both know by now that this is nothing but an empty gesture from either of us. You know the truth now, Zevran. What are you going to do with it?" Fawn calmly asked a seemingly simple question that was in brazen contrast with the upset assassin who was uncontrollably shivering in feverish excitement. For so long… For so long he had been waiting for this moment. The moment of truth. He opened his mouth to… What exactly? Sentence the Warden to death? Gloat? Scream? Cry? Even though he knew the truth now, did it feel any different? If this was what he'd been chasing after during past year, then it didn't taste like victory at all. His eyes betrayed him as they showed the same intense pain he let resurface only when alone. "That's what I thought," Fawn snorted a mocking remark when the Crow nothing but stared at him at a loss. "Quick to draw your blades, but weak when it comes to the deed itself. Pathetic!"

"What did you say?" The golden eyes narrowed into sinister clefts and that alone should have been enough for the Warden to resort to wise silence.

"I say that you're pathetic!" Fawn repeated, only now much slower and louder, as if it was not him who had a blade at his throat and an unstable assassin obsessed with vendetta at the other end of it. "I say you're weak, feckless, and a hypocrite above all else!" Fawn insisted with cold serenity that pushed the Crow beyond the bearable point; but Fawn wasn't done quite yet. "Ever since you were a little boy, you willingly obeyed whoever held the whip above your head. Old hags in orphanage you spent your first years of life in. Crows who bought you at the market as a young scrawny lad showing certain talents valued in their ranks. Whores at the brothels who taught you how to perceive love and take pleasure whenever you can, with whoever you can. And then – then you had nothing better to do than stumbling in my way thank you very much and everyone wondered, me included, why I let you live and even let you join us, given the fact you were sent to assassinate the only Grey Wardens who survived Ostagar! But it was all the same to you, I suspect. Once again you had someone to tell you what to do and that was obviously all you needed," he mercilessly continued and felt the blade quivering on his skin, nicking it here and there as Zevran was no longer master of his own actions and senses.

"Stop that," he threatened with his eyes wide and wild. "Stop that at once or I shall forget who you are to me," he pleaded, desperately clinging to the blade as if that was the answer to everything.

"But once I left you; once I dared abandon the mighty Zevran Arainai of the infamous Antivan Crows, poor Zev remained all alone and clueless of what should he do next with his sorry self. Suddenly there was no one to hold his hand. No quest to be pursued. No companions to be followed and no leader to be worshipped. So do me the courtesy of at least _admitting_ that all this witch hunt after my elusive shadow was nothing but your wounded pride and inability to live on your own! And not some pathetic attempt to settle petty grudges over who screwed with whom first!" Fawn's voice was gaining strength and last words he spluttered out in contempt, striking Zevran's hand to get the blade off his throat finally.

"Why do you care then? What am I to you if not a toy in your cruel hand?! Tell me that! TELL ME!"

Getting that anguish within him out all at once, Zevran took a swing at the Warden, too enraged to realize the blade was still firmly grasped in his hand. Fawn's long silver hair whirled through the air like snowstorm as the blade caught him across his cheek. He slowly straightened up again; cold, lofty, and impassive to this open attack, as he carefully brushed the disheveled hair off his face and lengthily neatened it. As soon as the damage the Crow had caused became visible, the blade inaudibly fell out of Crow's paralyzed hand. There was a long open slash across Fawn's fair skin that started at his cheekbone, cutting askew all the way down across his Vallaslin tattoos, and faded at his jawline. The cut started bleeding from several spots, oozing thin streams of blood that trickled down the pale skin.

In shock of what he had done and even more that no retaliation came so far, Zevran caught his own reflection in the looking glass. He caught sight of a man twisted by hatred, chased by the ghosts of past that were not asleep because he wouldn't let them. He saw a man consumed by his thirst for vengeance until the point where he lost any remaining connection to reality. Only now Zevran realized he no longer saw a Crow in the mirror – for the very first time in his life he didn't want to. His hands started uncontrollably shaking and he brought them up in front of his eyes in panic, rubbing the fingertips together as if he couldn't feel them. Pale steady fingers then enveloped those trembling dark ones, intertwining with them. Fawn had been calmly watching the metamorphosis the Crow had been going through and just as calmly he responded to Zevran's eyes that mirrored nothing but fear and mayhem.

"You were anything to me but a toy, Zevran. You can doubt my reasons to leave you behind in Amaranthine, you can doubt why I'd let you live after Loghain sent you after me, but don't you ever doubt that. Your life is now forfeited to me whether you like it or not and if you disagree, say it now." The Warden stood there, tall, distant again, as he authoritatively fixed his cold black eyes on Zevran's upset face.

"My life has been yours ever since we met," Zevran quietly responded, realizing that he'd achieved nothing; nothing at all, and Fawn was just as far from him as ever. "What would you have of me?" he mechanically asked with an expressionless face and anyone else would have shuddered at that deepest despair of a man who expected nothing from his life. Anyone else but Fawn.

"We are leaving. Now," Fawn heard himself saying before he actually thought it through. "Pack up our things, it should be very simple matter, since you've brought only a little with you and I even less than that. You will take a boat, make it to the shore and anchor it there, so the dwarves could retrieve it in the morning. You will take your right until you reach the first suitable cavern that lies deep within the cliffs, so the fire you kindle won't be visible outside. You will await my arrival there."

Staring at him in disbelief, Zevran thought he had heard wrong. He intended to brazenly laugh at that unbelievable arrogance, rage around to very explicitly show where Fawn could put his orders, but all he was able to do was to fetch his knapsack, sheathe his daggers, hesitantly retrieve Fawn's small valise from the corner and leave the cabin without a word as he was told to do.

Long Fawn sat in an armchair in the darkest corner, listening to the creaking sounds the ship was making as it gently swayed on the waves. He rummaged through every word he had exchanged with Zevran, twisting it, examining it, revealing obscured meaning of all that hidden behind the wall of pain Zevran had barricaded himself with. The hold Fawn had over Crow's life was now clear and absolute just as it was clear that his word was equal to a command Zevran was unable to ignore. Yes; there was no need to think over the next steps, as the next steps were emerging right in front of the Warden – just as lucid and bright as were the first sun beams struggling their way through low dark skies that threatened to pour down the cold heavy rain. Indistinct rustle and subtle noises were hearable within Mahariel's cabin for a while until a single loud sound resounded and then the deepest silence followed.

oOo

The morning dawned and the presage of coming winter was tangible within the crispy air. Merrill wasn't surprised when she woke up alone, but she indeed intended to find Hawke as soon as possible since she suspected he didn't sleep at all. She dressed up, raked fingers through the tangled nest of hair on her head and slipped out of her warm cabin, shivering as the temperature dramatically shifted as she climbed on upper decks. There were only two dwarves huddled by the helm, silent, disciplined and one of them glanced over his shoulder and gave her a subtle bow. Merrill tightened Hawke's cape she had borrowed around her body and then she spotted him. A lone figure standing like a statue at the utmost point of the prow, gazing forward as the Fereldan coastline was laid out right in front of him, shrouded in morning mist.

He smiled when he felt her small hands sneaking their way around his waist, but there were traces of pain in that smile as well. At last he had made it home, but at what cost? How many lay dead behind him? How many friends he had betrayed or thrown away when they served their purpose?

"Good morning, my pirate," she whispered and pressed against him, facing the land just as he was, even though she kept glancing up into his face. She'd never seen him as relaxed and composed as he was now when he had Fereldan literary within his arms' reach.

"Good morning, sleeping beauty," he replied with a chuckle as he pushed her in front of him, embracing her and crossing his arms over her chest.

"There's a light within you, ma vhenan. Are you happy?" she asked a simple question and perhaps for the first time in years Hawke had just as simple answer to it.

"Yes. Yes, I am. Very much," he laughed and it was just as carefree and beatific sound as it could ever get.

"But—" Merrill objected and turned around to face him.

"There's no _but_ for us, Merrill. Not this time," he gently scattered her worries. "Unless you've changed your mind about us, of course." He cast his fiery eyes sidelong and the light within them waned.

"No, no, no, ma vhenan. I haven't and I won't. But where are we going? Where are we going to live? What are we going to do?" she pressed herself against him, but the fear of the future was leaving her already. During her speech, Hawke's lips curled into coy smile and that smile broadened into roguish grin until Merrill noticed it and fell silent with uncertain smile and head cocked in thought.

"Do you think I didn't consider the possibility that not everything would go as I wanted? Moreover, for many months I've been expecting to leave Kirkwall anyway and refuse the Viscount's crown. An agent bought an estate in my name long time ago in the West Hills and also a small house in Alamar. I was told it's a lovely quiet place on the coast with only a few old residents scattered around the country."

Having no real response to the thought of finally having a home; a place to put down the roots, a place where they could start anew, Merrill threw herself into Hawke's arms, weeping. And so they stood there at the utmost point of the prow – two people who belonged together and who believed in their future.

Malcolm found them like this, but he settled for merely observing the couple who were oblivious to anyone and anything in sight in their selfish happiness. The old mage sauntered around the decks for a while, and this short stroll reminded him why he hated ships with their eternal rocking and water splashing and wood creaking.

"Where is Fawn?" Samael suddenly mumbled in alarm and disengaged as his eyes started searching the decks that started crawling with the dwarves some time ago. "I better go check on him," he decided after a moment of hesitation and set off.

"I'm going with you!" Merrill quickly grasped on Hawke's hand and clutched it with both hers, scuttling by his side.

"Fawn?" Hawke asked through the closed door leading to Mahariel's cabin, and this time he didn't bother hiding disquiet within his words. Listening to the silence within, he barged in without a forewarning, frantically searching for someone who was no longer there until his eyes stopped at a bulk on the bed that was macabrely reminding of a human body neatly covered by a white sheet while a blade was jabbed askew into what was supposed to be the torso. Merrill pressed her both palms on the mouth as both of them obviously expected the worst. Watching the bed with narrowed eyes, Hawke cautiously approached it and yanked the sheet off the bed with one fluent move.

"Oh, Creators…!" was Merrill immediate reaction when the sheet uncovered nothing but more sheets and pillows and the longsword harmlessly dropped down on the furs. Samael noticed it only now – it was not some mere blade, a child's toy or work of lesser descendants of ancient masters who bent the steel to their will. It was the Blade of Brecilian Forrest. It was Fawn's blade and Hawke knew only all too well Fawn would have never parted with his companion.

"Samael…" she quietly addressed him with her hand placed on his shoulder as she was holding an envelope not alike to the one Hawke had received already from the Hero of Fereldan. "There's your name on it." Seeing that she was right, he tore the envelope apart and unfolded the smooth vellum covered with narrow elegant handwriting.

_Dear Hawke and my lovely Merrill,_

_I gave you an envelope already, but apparently the paths our Creators tread through are indeed unfathomable. My original intentions have been marred to my luck or to my doom, but that remains to be seen. _

_I beg your forgiveness for my unannounced departure and I assure you I didn't plan on it nor did I predict it. I thought my time is up as I've been living on a borrowed time for many years anyway, but Creators decided otherwise. The person whom I suspected to claim my life is leaving with me instead. My dear Samael. You have spared life of this person when I begged you to. I do not regret it in the least and neither should you, my friend. I could write now that the bond between him and me you could never understand, but as it turns out, you actually could, for it is both beautiful and destructive and extraordinary bond not unlike to your bond to Merrill._

_Hawke, you have been given Occela already, now please accept my Blade of the Brecilian forest. I believe our time together has reached its end and if I should imagine bearing it anyone else but myself, it would be you. I implore you; do not seek me out for I do not wish to be found._

_Merrill, I considered you a sister my whole life whether you knew it or whether I deserved it. There were times when you were very close to my heart until I ruined your affection with presumption of doing you a favor when I tore you from the man you loved and forced the Keeper's staff into your hand. For that I deeply apologize and I wish time would give us reconciliation. Please take the emerald medallion of mine you have always admired and bear it with you. I kept it only because it has the same color as your eyes. Now it's yours._

_As far as I'm concerned, the Hero of Fereldan died here in this very cabin, even though his name shall live forever even though I did not deserve that title and most certainly did not live up to it._

_Please think of me well, my friends. You might be the only ones who will. I bless your bond and my only regret is that I won't see your child growing up._

_Fawn_

Hawke turned the vellum over as if he couldn't believe that this was it. Fawn had left. He glanced at Merrill and realized she was holding the emerald amulet in her trembling hands, shyly touching the big emerald that shone just as her eyes did. "Come," he reached for her and watched her as she attached the medallion around her neck in silence. "There is nothing left for us here." His eyes then examined the neat small cabin that bore no signs of its previous dwellers and Hawke took the shining longsword along with them.

Leske and his men turned out to be seasoned sea dogs as they managed to drop anchor at a convenient place where masses of dark water nibbled away the land and created a little harbor shielded from any prying eyes – all that in night darker than an ink puddle. They disembarked without procrastination and Hawke was pleasingly surprised to realize there was a flat wagon and a carriage waiting for them on the road since forethoughtful Leske had sent out a scout to the nearest village to arrange for transportation for the Champion and his small cohort.

"It's nothing ritzy, my lord, but I think it'll do," Leske scratched his head when he realized Hawke was observing in silence as the crates filled with his bloodied gold were being loaded on the wagon.

"It's perfect," Hawke concluded and patted the surprised dwarf on his back, "thank you." Yes; both wagon and carriage were quite old and made of plain wood, but it was also obvious that they were sturdy and, more importantly, completely inconspicuous and subtle which was exactly what Hawke needed. The horses seemed much older than Occela, but they were strong and reliable animals nevertheless.

"Champion, it's been my pleasure!" Leske grinned his toothy unsettling smile and his eyes one last time cunningly flashed toward the sealed crates as if he knew exactly what was hidden inside and were he not under direct orders from Jarvia, he would have gladly relieve Hawke of such burden no doubt.

"The pleasure's been certainly mine. Please give my warm regards and genuine thanks to your Mistress and tell her my thoughts are with her in that turmoil that seems to prevail in Orzammar." As polite and smooth as his words were, Leske caught those warning undertones nonetheless and realized Hawke had pretty much guessed that this could have ended in utterly different way than this friendly one; however fake and suger-coated it was.

Then finally the small motley group of travelers stood in a circle on the road, glancing at one another with uncertain smiles showing their thrill of the upcoming adventure. The Carta ship had left already, but not before Leske expressed countless times his admiration for the Champion of Kirkwall that was just as forced as this whole pleasure crew.

"So…" Malcolm assumed the role of a speaker as he was the oldest man in the group. "Where is that, you know, elf?" he shot a surprised question once he realized he hadn't seen Mahariel this morning and neither did he disembark along with the rest of them.

"I'm afraid he's set off to a journey where we cannot follow him," was all Samael had to diplomatically say and then he turned away from Malcolm who didn't seem mollified by the answer in the least. It was Merrill's hand on the old mage's shoulder that prevented him from prying. "Then… Where are you going?" Malcolm cautiously asked, not daring to ask whether they were all going together.

"Well, we're going that way," Hawke impishly pointed his finger right and felt the burden on his shoulders growing weaker and weaker. Once again Merrill glanced at him in surprise, attempting to comprehend his good mood bordering with elation. They were in the heart of the Highever and they needed to head west down the Imperial Highway until it would lead them to West Hill where new Hawke estate lie. "Shall we…?" Hawke offered an arm to Merrill with comic gallantry and blinked at her when he was seating her in the carriage. Maraas checked one last time upon the crates that were stacked up on the wagon and safely bound to it with thick ropes. No one would have guessed the plain crates were filled with gold and that was Hawke's intention indeed. "Father?" Samael strapped Occela's bridle toward the wagon and then glanced over his shoulder, realizing his father was loitering apart from the group, pushing small pebble left and right with his boot and downcast eyes. "Are you coming or what?" Samael quietly asked and their eyes met. It was a long telling gaze and more Malcolm would not dare dreaming of.

"I'm coming, I'm coming…" he grumbled, peeved just for the sake of appearance, and he pushed his son away from the coach box as Samael had clearly intended to take up the reins. "Gimme that before you drive that carriage off the cliff, lad. Go be with your woman or something," he muttered and Samael caught a broad grin on his face Malcolm was trying to hide in his beard. Not needing any more prodding, Samael jumped into the open carriage and comfortably settled down next to Merrill who had been unusually quiet until now.

"Ready?" she asked a seemingly relaxed question, but there was lots of uncertainty and fear hidden in it.

"Absolutely," he replied immediately, bringing her hand up to his lips, and his confidence became also her confidence.

"Then I'm not afraid of anything," she firmly stated and set her eyes on the road. He just faintly smiled about her courage that was proven many times over already. The irony of a situation that once again became his reality was bewildering. There he was, smuggled to Fereldan in the illegal Carta ship, and traveling incognito towards his new life with one orphaned Kossith, a capricious horse who looked as annoyed as ever being strapped to the wagon, and two apostates – one pregnant blood mage and an old seasoned mage scarred by many battles who decided to be a father to him at last.

If these were the cards life decided to endow him with, Samael Hawke was willing to take it and keep playing.


	27. Chapter 27

The Warden & The Crow

Part 1

The trees have shed their leaves weeks ago and weather had been constantly worsening until first shy snowflakes appeared, only to melt again, but it was the presage of winter coming upon the lands of Fereldan nevertheless. Elders held long-winded talks that this one would be particularly long and cruel.

Denerim looked exceptionally gloomy on that particular late autumn evening. Howling wind carrying the chills from North blew through the deserted streets, buffeting with anything that was not nailed, and the old wooden houses creaked as if begging for mercy. Heavy cold rain poured down in thick cords from low dark clouds soaked with moisture, and there was a foul smell creeping right above the ground throughout the quiet city. Everyone who could was holed up inside, huddled by the fire and with a cup of something warm in hands. The grumpy gate keeper let the last tardy travelers through the main city gate before he sealed it for the night, glad that he could go back inside again and pretend he was actually guarding it. Two travelers ducked into the nearest alehouse to find themselves hot meals and saucy wenches for the night, but the third one continued onward. Even though his cloak was drenched and droplets of rain were trickling off his hood, the traveler seemed in no hurry despite the weather as he crossed the emptied marketplace. He bore nothing but small valise over his shoulder that must have been drenched just like he was, and the hem of his heavy cloak kept conspicuously bulging at one particular place as if a sword was swaying beneath the fabric according with the pace. The traveler clearly knew exactly where he was going, but simply didn't care to get there fast. There was no one in sight but four blackguards standing closely to each other in front of an inn that was so old that its name was no longer recognizable and the ancient proprietor who used to be an infamous raider simply referred to it as "the hold". The men were shielded from the rain by a decrepit cover above the door and from the first look they were up to no good. They ceased their hushed debate once the traveler reached them with his measured steps, clearly intending to visit the inn only if the plotters weren't blocking the way. It was unclear whether the traveler spoke a few words or if he merely gave them a glare from beneath his low drawn hood, but the men stepped aside instantly and let him walk through, watching him in sinister silence as he passed by them and entered.

Inconspicuous in his black cloak lined with silver fur and its hem three inches deep in mud, the newcomer looked like any other adventurer seeking shelter from the awful weather and company on his lone travels, even though there was something intangible hiding beneath that cloak no one seemed to notice. If the stranger looked ordinary and easily overlooked as he stood by the front door, he managed to draw an unwanted attention to himself the moment he deliberately omitted to pull the hood back when he decided to casually head straight to the slanting counter behind which the old pirate was cleaning and polishing copper mugs with dilligence that was unusual for a place like this.

"What can I get ya, stranger?" The old pirate eyed him up and down and spat out a disgusting tobacco gob of spit on the floor. There was not much to look at however – a lean silhouette of a cloaked man not very tall, not very short, his body and arms hidden beneath that cloak that was clipped together with a massive blackened iron clasp, a tip of a blade protruding out of the folds of dirty fabric right above the ground was catching light from the many blazing torches, and finally a face shadowed by the hood that nothing but thin lips constantly twisted into a subtle sneer and a chin with delicately weaving tattoo net were visible. A pair of penetrating eyes flashed now and then from beneath the hood as if they were constantly on alert.

The stranger glanced around before he leaned forward and asked with a low voice, "Tell me, old man, is there an elf staying in your inn?" He glanced around again, this time in almost paranoid suspicion, drawing even nearer to the pirate afterward and lowering his voice even further. "My height, blonde long hair, with a black tattoo coiling on his left cheek?"

"Hey, Flynn, where's my bloody dinner, y'old scurvy bilge rat?" One of the regulars with manners of a grumpy old nug elbowed his way toward the counter, but that intangible something discouraged him from shoving the stranger away along with the others.

"Here's yer dinner, ya mangy cockroach. Munch and piss off!" The old pirate slammed a plate full of roasted meat, vegetables, and freshly baked bread in front of the regular, clearly his friend, who sniffed the steaming meal and licked his lips. "You were saying…?" Flynn turned back to the stranger, but his friend wasn't quite done yet.

"Is it edible, Flynn? Or is it moving like last time? Smells suspiciously well, you old lower deck nit. You stole it from Gnawed Noble Tavern again?" he roared with laughter at his own joke along with another half of the inn.

"Shut yer trap afore I grab ye by the danglers and hang ye by them over the side!" Flynn shouted the scum quiet and turned back to the stranger who struggled to remain calm even though he was far from it at this point. "Pardon them gents manners, kind sir. You were inquiring 'bout some knife-ear?" he obligingly asked again, waving his arm at the heckler to leave them alone. At an ominous scowl from the black clad one, he amended his question to, "You were inquiring 'bout some elf?"

"Yes, I was indeed." Stranger's patience was now clearly strained to the utmost bearable point as he slammed his fist into the counter to emphasize that bartender's attention should better be dedicated to him now and him only. "My height, blonde, with tattooed face and a very developed taste for fucking anything willing. Tell me – is there such a man staying at your inn?" Puzzled, Flynn looked down on the hand covered with thin fingerless glove that seemed to be a part of the hand even though the smooth black leather was in contrast with almost white flesh. Realizing that the bartender had been staring at his hand bearing the silver ring with a large ruby, the stranger withdrew his hand beneath the cloak again, leaving two silver coins on the counter to help Flynn refresh his memory.

"Huh," Flynn made an uncertain sound and the coins magically disappeared from the counter. "There is but one man here who tallies with your description, although—"

"Although what?" The stranger impatiently interrupted him and leaned with both his hands against the counter in suspense. The cloak parted and Flynn glimpsed beautifully wrought silver breastplate with elaborate adornments worthy of a prince.

"Although he's more like a monk or so it would seem. Often drunk monk," Flynn cackled, still surreptitiously looking at the majestic breastplate right until the moment the cloak had covered it again. Flynn fell silent once the stranger headed upstairs without another word since he had clearly gathered all information he needed. "Room 4! He's in room 4! And he owes me a nice pouch of coppers for his stay and food by the way!" he yelled in vigor after him. "I smell troubles," he then murmured to himself, his eyes following the stranger until he was gone. Flynn pulled one silver coin out of his pocket afterward, toying with it before he slipped it back in and went about his business. After all, he was but a humble bartender and an ex-raider who ought to survive like everybody else.

oOo

Zevran lay on his stomach; an arm dangling over the side of the bed with fingertips slightly touching the hardwood floor, and the thin sheet of uncertain color was draped lazily over his backside, leaving the black tattoos curving on his back visible. His cheek was against the rough edge of the mattress and it must have been uncomfortable as it dug into his skin, but he seemed to be sound asleep nevertheless.

And so he had found him. After a month of thorough searching, he had finally found him in this hovel.

It was now when the stranger chose to finally pull the hood back and the light coming from a small fireplace illuminated Mahariel's pale face and his silver hair shone in gloom every time he moved his head. It seemed Zevran had turned in only recently since the logs in fire were barely half-burnt, the bottle of cheap wine was still half-full and modest dinner appeared to be untouched. Zevran's armor was scattered everywhere he looked as the Crow obviously sauntered around the room while undressing, leaving the pieces where they had fallen down. It didn't escape Fawn's attention that the armor was quite worn-out and there was no warm cloak for the upcoming winter to be found; just some grey mantle far too thin to withstand the cold. Merely out of curiosity, Fawn peeked under the bed, expecting the twin blades to rest there since he knew Zevran's paranoia that had saved not only his life many times over, but the space was empty to his astonishment and he could count lumps of dust and a few abandoned cobwebs.

Watching Zevran in his sleep; so relaxed, so unaware, breathing with slow deep breaths, Fawn found himself willing to simply sit there and keep watching since waking up the slumbering elf seemed callous. On the other hand, Fawn was soaking wet to his very marrow, he shivered with cold, he was starved, and there seemed to be no other alternative than to start tending to his own needs and therefore wake the Crow up. He strolled toward the fire to warm himself up at least and consider the situation, when a husky voice solved it for him.

"You were not there," the voice stated. Fawn did not move at first, nor did he respond.

"Do you know why I was not there?" he finally asked a dour question, still turned toward the fire.

"I don't know. I don't care. I waited for you in that damp cavern for six days and you didn't come. Six days. Only then it struck me you never intended to show up in the first place."

Still watching the dancing flames, Fawn had not heard him, had not seen him approaching, suddenly he was simply there right behind him, turning him around and slamming him hard into the door. It was a sound that must have been heard even downstairs. The Warden could nothing but put up with it as he was in no shape to struggle after his long travels in search of the Crow. With their noses almost touching, Zevran's hand fumbled for the key stuck in the lock. He worked the key to assure privacy, not breaking the eye contact, and then, as if with a dark thought in his mind, he pocketed it.

"You never understood what I've been trying to do ever since I met you, do you?" Fawn slowly shook his head, passively standing when Zevran's hands roughly tore his cloak off him and seized the sword as well as several smaller blades – all of them ending up thrown far away with ungodly noise. Several regulars looked up from their ales and plates at the racket right above their heads, but since Flynn kept polishing a huge copper pitcher with excessive care as if he had heard nothing suspicious at all, they slowly went back to their business.

"Do share!" The Crow hissed into his face once he ran his hands down Fawn's breeches that were stuck in knee-high warm boots that were meant to walk great distances. No weapon hidden there and the Crow calmed down a little.

"You see, there's been always a question what would you do when you alone were responsible for yourself. How would you live your life once you were free of all responsibilities, all ties, all loose ends. And now we know, don't we?" Fawn glanced about the tiny ramshackle room that was not even paid for. "I mean, you've clearly decided to depart your wonderful life of raping and slaughter in Antiva, therefore you no longer accept contracts, meaning you must have run out of coin at some point and now you're just surviving day after day after day, until the day the old pirate throws you out of here with city guards on your tail. What would happen afterward, that remains to be seen." Fawn's eyes then stopped at the damaged leather cuirass, worn down boots and two iron daggers and a whetstone lying on the table. Where Crow's infamous needle-like blades were, Fawn did not know.

"You missed one tiny crucial detail, Warden. I no longer _care_ what you think!" Zevran spat out venom at him, but his eyes just like Fawn's flew about the miserable room and he felt pangs of shame to be found like this. But the decorum must have been protected at all cost even now. "So why don't you spare me the lecture? Why are you even here, I wonder? Leave me! I wish to speak with you no more!"

"Look at you!" Fawn pushed the elf away from him in outrage, examining the husk of a proud assassin he had used to know once. "You gave up!" he accused him and shook his head in disgust as if reacting to his own inner thoughts. Wondering now as well why he indeed bothered coming here, Fawn threw his body on a creaking chair by the plain wooden table with his head in palms. The table – just like everything else at the inn – seemed to be a little askew.

"You don't know what it's like." The Crow remained standing where Fawn had shoved him with his head hanging down in disgrace. "I was a frightened child shooed from everywhere I turned. I scratched a living out of petty thefts and simple tasks of delivery whenever I could get them. First time I glimpsed something like a family; it turned out to be a ring of slavers who sold me in the market to the guild of ruthless assassins. Can you blame me for attempting to make a home with them? I took what I could get! It was the first and only home I've ever known, Fawn, and it was real! They trained me, fed me, invested in me, and hell if I cared about their motives! Can you blame me for fulfilling each contract they gave me? Never questioning, never defying, never thinking of tomorrow? Just today, always today, never yesterday, and most definitely never tomorrow! Cusping on adulthood, I had no idea who I was, what I was, if I even wanted to be…! It's hundred shades of suck and fuck, that's what this was like!" Zevran screamed, begged, threw things, pleaded, threatened violence, while Fawn had been observing his doing in serene silence that made the Crow angrier still.

"You let them define you!" Fawn groaned into his palms, waving his white hand as if that was a capital crime. "You bowed to those who decided to be your masters and you didn't know any better than to accept it and unconditionally obey them. I attempted to set you free, but one cannot set free a man who doesn't wish to be free." Each his word stung like a fresh bleeding whip welt on Crow's already beaten body. He was incapable of resisting his masters in Antiva, but perhaps he could resist now.

"And what do you suggest then?" he retorted and smashed against the wall yet another earthen dish Fawn had stoically handed him over. "Should I take my chances with you rather than with those who looked after me for years?"

"Like a panderer looks after his whores, you mean…." Fawn gave him a snort full of disdain, pretentiously observing his white hands and neatening the elegant gloves.

"I was _alone_, Fawn!" Zevran howled like a wounded predator and it was clear they had finally hit the sore spot. "You abandoned me in Amaranthine, knowing what would happen if you did, but you left me anyway! Whom I was supposed to turn to? Whom I was supposed to trust?! The Crows took me back since I was one of their best! They took me back and let me work! I've been taking contract after contract the whole damn year during which I searched for you. They didn't care I was driven by the thought for revenge as long as I delivered the results and believe me – the corpses paved my path wherever I turned. So don't you dare just sit there, patronizing me, scolding me, clearly amused by Zevran Arainai who, despite everything, is clearly unable to live without _you_!"

Being as it was, the words were finally said out loud and there was nothing Zevran could do to take them back. The words Fawn had come to Denerim to hear. Slowly he looked up; letting his eyes rest on Zevran's who stared at him with longing that ran deep to the very moment of their first encounter when they equally felt the frisson that seized both their minds and refused to wane ever since. The Warden rose from his uncomfortable seat, but obviously this innocent move was enough for Zevran's body to tense, his bare chest heaved with quick shallow breaths, the muscles bulging and jerking as if preparing for a lunge, while his face disclosed nothing but suspicion and resentment, so Fawn rather remained standing exactly where he was.

"Come here," he quietly addressed the Crow, holding out one of his hands toward him with a palm open upward.

"To what end?" Zevran cautiously watched the hand and if anything, he seemed to be prone to flee; certainly not make a single step forward.

"I meant every word on the ship, Zevran. I didn't hear you protesting once I proclaimed your life to be mine and I don't hear you protesting now, so one can only assume where this would end if you take that hand." Fawn laughed his quiet melodic laughter and let his outstretched arm gracefully fall down again as he made two subtle steps closer to the Crow instead. "Obviously, I could have foreseen that my lesson to you would magnificently fail, and fail it sadly did, yet I chose not to. But back to your question regarding why I am here." Another negligible step forward. "Clearly we've both suffered long enough without one another and from this day forth I wish you by my side if you're willing." Another step brought the Warden even closer, so he was now fully able to enjoy the impact his words had on the man he loved, however flawed that man was.

"If this is just one of your sick games—" Zevran weakly objected, becoming more and more convinced that Fawn had come here to nothing but torment him again.

"No games. No lies. No pretense. Not this time. Tomorrow we shall leave this place together if that's what you wish." There it was. An invitation. No coyness, no hesitation, no doubt, nothing but a blatant invitation to indulge Zevran's all desires. Growing restless when no reply came immediately as he would expect, Fawn slowly reached for his pendant hanging around Zevran's neck, playing with it a little before he tightly grasped it into the fist, pulling the Crow fervently toward him. Oh yes; he would have an answer and he would have it now, no matter how speechless Zevran seemed to be.

Was Zevran really hearing this? He was not sure. He wanted to speak, but couldn't. He wanted to move, but wasn't able to. Was this really, truly happening? He had given up all hope and buried himself in this forgotten dark hole. Night after night he would drink into early morning hours, getting into all kinds of troubles, only to go to ground with first sun beams, sleeping through the whole day or stare at the ceiling and do nothing until the room darkened again, signaling it was time for him to get up and survive yet another night in hell. And now - Fawn was suddenly back. He appeared exactly two months after their dissent at the coast of Fereldan, offering a new life, even though Zevran had failed in the test or perhaps because of Zevran failing in the test. Was it really all he was to the Warden? A victim of his own imperfect self? Nothing but a pitiful misled soul in need of guidance?

"Your scar," he quietly pointed out. "You didn't heal it." Endlessly he stared into Fawn's face in urgency as if forcing himself to burn every feature, even the tiniest detail of that face into his memory since he believed that would be all he would have left once the Warden was gone again. Just standing near Fawn Mahariel made Zevran feeling feckless, fractional and somewhat stained. Fawn's noble features, refined manners, lavish clothing and armor worthy of kings – that was an intoxicating combination and it was getting only harder and harder to believe that a man like this had come here for someone like Zevran Arainai – a renegade Crow who had fallen away from his Antivan masters' grace, had dark past and no future.

If anything, Fawn was taken aback by that single thing Zevran chose to say, of all things he could have said instead. "You were the one who gave me that scar, Zevran. I assumed you thought I deserve it," Fawn shrugged and let go of the pendant, intently watching Zevran's reactions to his nearness. The Crow would raise his hand thrice, only to let it drop back each time. Finally he found the courage to trace the pearly scar on Fawn's face with a warm dark finger and the Warden kept watching him as he did it; unresponsive to the intimacy. Zevran anxiously searched for a reaction, a mere proof that the Warden felt something at his touch, anything at all, and even this passive acceptance was welcomed and so much better than rejection. No objection came though and neither did any sign of assent. Taking strength from this neutrality, however tentative it was, Zevran found the courage to touch that white long hair that so intrigued him. It was sleek, emanating the faint scent of rain, flowing between his fingers like waterfalls of silver. Emboldened, Zevran's hand then lightly brushed his cheek, his eyebrow, across his narrow aristocratic nose, touching the lips that parted a little as if begging for more. Just like in Zevran's dreams, the contrast between his tanned hand and Fawn's pale skin was stimulating, but the differences between the two of them, and not just their skin tones, were so numerous and overwhelming that Zevran could no longer withstand looking at him; let alone touching him.

The moment he recoiled, Fawn's eyes slowly opened again and only now he realized he had let himself go just for those few precious moments, simply enjoying the pleasure Zevran's fingers had to offer. He didn't have to ask what was wrong since Zevran's eyes had betrayed him once again. The wisest thing to do now was to wait for an upheaval and it indeed came when Zevran could simply no longer bear that long silent stare from the other elf.

"Look at us!" he threw his arms sideways and hissed when a splinter of broken dish went straight to his heel. Being it as it may, Fawn didn't seem to comprehend what was it he was supposed to see. "Look at us!" Zevran tried again, this time dragging them both to the slim tall mirror cracked in the middle that stood in a corner. "Look at you," Zevran vigorously gestured toward Fawn's regal appearance, "and now look at me," his ardor faded once he examined himself in the mirror, standing there in nothing but threadbare breeches that had seen better days, bare feet, loose hair and a haunted expression on his face.

Mildly shaking his head, Fawn stepped back from the mirror. Was this really the only thing that bothered the Crow? Was he insane? Well, yes, he probably was. But had he forgotten that two years ago he attempted to assassinate two Grey Wardens who looked like beggars? Having nothing but a few coppers in a small burnt-through pouch, wearing heavily damaged armor far beyond repair from Ostagar, low on spirits as they had lost everything and nearly even their lives after Loghain's coup de grâce, they seemed like an easy mark, even though they were unexpectedly accompanied by a dark-haired woman with an odd stick in her hand who looked no better than those two. One can only imagine how immense was Zevran's surprise once he woke up after the clash with his hands bound, multiple grievous wounds on his body and a very brief future ahead of him for he was certain he had been kept alive for a thorough questioning before he would join his guild brothers and sisters who lay dead all around him. In a way, the Crow attack was a blessing for both Wardens as well as almost their doom. Humiliating and revolting as it was, they ransacked each corpse and gathered anything that might have been of any use for them. Coins, tools, potions, poultices, weapons, spare clothing, and whole knapsacks of provisions – they took it all. Fawn found a very decent set of hardened leather armor that hadn't been damaged at all in the skirmish as its deceased owner was hit with Fawn's throwing blade right between the eyes. Alistair wasn't that fortunate though as the only armor suitable for a warrior of his qualities and fighting style had a roasted man inside of it – a courtesy of Morrigan who didn't take lightly when the man had shot a bolt her way. "Not the time to be picky, I guess…" Fawn remembered him saying as he started his efforts to relieve the dead man of his armor with his eyes closed tight and mouth twisted in disgust. He would then say for weeks that everywhere he turned, he smelled roast meat. At that memory Fawn almost laughed. It was Zevran's willingly given money that kept them fed and safe for next two months after the attack, and ultimately allowed them to travel to Redcliffe in order to present the arl with the Grey Wardens treaties and ask for help. But that was a long time ago, seemed like in another life, and there was but one companion left Fawn cared about.

And so they stood there pitted against each other once again; two rivals, two brothers, two lovers, and neither of them seemed to have a cure for this sickness that plagued them both equally; love. Fawn brought his hand in front of his face, hesitated, then he removed the ring and pulled off the gloves he wore and set them all aside on the table. The vambraces; part leather, part silver, proved a little bit more challenging as there were elaborate laces to be undone, but even those came off in no time, ending up on the table as well. Watching in silence, Zevran had no idea what was happening, but his eyes were eager to find out.

"Is this what bothers you so?" Mahariel casually nodded toward the armor he had taken off already while his hands started working on the straps holding the exquisite breastplate and backplate of his cuirass. "Do you really think these are the things that define me? Things I can hide behind?"

"I… No… Why…" was all Zevran had to say apparently.

Once the straps became loose, Fawn carefully set aside both parts of the cuirass and in no haste started unbuttoning the black jerkin with fur hems he shed off him and left it where it'd fallen. The high boots and socks were next and it took some maneuvering to pull them off and place them by the fire to let them dry. With a sneer, Fawn jabbed two more identical blades into the table that had been hidden within the boots – just in case. Aware of being closely watched, Fawn's fingers then lightly ran across the soft fabric of his tunic while he searched for the reaction he wanted to stir in the first place. Zevran's golden eyes revealed much of what'd been going on inside of him and he made an unwilling step forward as if offering help in Fawn's endeavor. Mahariel wore a soft, light green colored tunic with silver leaves that was closely fitted to his narrow chest. Slowly he began unlacing the thong that ran its length diagonally and he never took his eyes off the Crow as his hands worked, waiting for that boundary where Zevran would no longer be able to stay back and watch only. Fawn shrugged off the garment and his pale torso gleamed crimson as it absorbed the light and warmth from the fire that was a soothing change after being stuck in drenched clothing and armor for days. Realizing one more difference between them, Fawn slowly reached to the back of his head, fiddling with thin leather strings that held two thick neat braids to keep the long hair off his face. Once undone, the braids fell down free of the restraint and Fawn untangled them with his fingers. His hair was now loose.

"Do you recognize me now?" he asked once he stood against the Crow without his armor and most of his clothing, both of them looking very much the same. Unable to restrain himself anymore, Zevran lunged forward, grasping Mahariel by his shoulders with both his hands tight enough to hurt him; the pain Fawn would be delighted to endure. At that precise moment all the tension, a year of yearning and frustration was vented out as they gripped onto one another, their hands frantically exploring the familiar bodies, both of them panting, groaning, mumbling, imploring. Sinking his fingers deep into tangles of silver hair, Zevran roughly held out the Warden a bit away from him, and then he was on him with abandon that was both beautiful and destructive in its nature. That kiss neither of them would ever forget. The bodies pressed tightly against each other; one of them cold and pale, the other dark and warm, the hands impatiently tearing off that little clothing what remained to be torn off, their mouths open in utter acceptance and tongues exploring and insistent. Kicking the shards away blindly from beneath his feet, Zevran dropped down to his knees to see for himself what treasure he had uncovered. He left his arms stretched up Fawn's body, wandering, caressing, and memorizing every curve as they made their way down while his mouth found the stiff shaft he engulfed without hesitation. When he did, his fingers dug deep into the pale flesh of Fawn's torso and he let out a guttural groan as his mouth worked its way down the shaft until it disappeared entirely within his mouth. Moaning his name, Fawn wildly threw his head back, his hands seeking refuge within the blond hair, ruffling it, pulling it, stroking it, and as if only to underline this loss of control, Fawn's hands flared and dimmed again several times before they lit up, emanating warm pulsating light showing the arcane warrior had lost control over his magic that was unstable to begin with. Focusing on giving pleasure rather than receiving it and clearly accustomed to Fawn's reactions, Zevran just smiled to himself as he focused on the technique and therefore he was surprised when Fawn's hands suddenly grasped him by his wrists and pulled him roughly back up. Giving the Crow no time to recuperate, Fawn slammed his mouth over Zevran's, demanding entrance to taste himself. Their fingers on both hands remained intertwined while Fawn's still emitted lingering light, but it was not magic that could harm the Crow, however close he was. Assuming that only one thing could force the Warden to bring him back up to his feet, Zevran spun around only all too willingly, pulling his lover hard toward him to make clear he was giving himself freely and entirely to his lover to penetrate him at will.

Two pairs of iron fingers grasped Zevran from behind, but then the grip loosened as if the Warden was bracing himself for something. "No," the Crow heard a deep breathless voice in his ear. Glancing over his shoulder at the Warden in surprise, he turned back again, quizzically awaiting an explanation. He intimately knew all Fawn's tastes for he had fulfilled many of his secret desires what a man can only demand from another man, so he knew only all too well that Fawn was always the one entering; not the one being penetrated. This time, as it seemed, would be different. "Tonight, your needs come first," Fawn quietly confirmed when Zevran didn't seem to understand. To make it obvious, that Mahariel indeed had no tender love-making in mind, he violently pulled his lover to him by his hair, claiming his lips again, battling for supremacy. Zevran started to comprehend what gift his lover had presented him with only now and, Maker, he liked it! It was a permission to touch, to shape, to kiss or penetrate whatever he desired and how he desired. Oh, it'd been so long ever since he was with Fawn last time… Aroused on entirely new level, his breathing quickened until he started panting, his breath wheezing in and out, barely noticing Fawn had found his new favorite spot on Crow's neck, playing there with his tongue, kissing here and there, teasing, waiting until his words would fully sink in. The Warden was truly curious what would the Crow do with this newly found freedom.

It didn't take long indeed - the permission was given loudly and clearly after all, and Zevran shoved his lover on the bed, giving him just as much time as he had given him before to keep up before he rammed himself into him. Fawn let out a strident groan, but the Crow cared not. Gathering most of the silver hair into his fist, he jerked Fawn's head up to signal he wished him to be quiet now. The act was primal, it was paramount, and it was savage as the only lubrication was their sweat and what had leaked from Zevran's cock in anticipation. Seeing that Fawn struggled to remain silent as ordered, Zevran slammed only deeper, thrusting in earnest to force the Warden to break the silence. When Zevran came, it was glorious. Fawn could feel his release, his joy over their reunion, his desires fulfilled as he spent himself entirely and fell on the back of his lover. Not ready for such extra weight, Fawn's back gave in and they both collapsed into the bed, facing each other as they both kept reveling in great weeping gasps of air with their eyes closed. Fawn realized only now that he had been so focused on Zevran's release that he had completely missed his own even though he did come as well at some point. Unimportant as it was, he found it unusual nevertheless.

"Have I hurt you?" A concerned voice ripped the Warden out of his thoughts languidly forming within his head. Opening his black eyes in surprise at such question, he realized the golden eyes must have been watching him for quite some time now with growing anxiety. Obviously Fawn had let himself sneak into his own inner world, feeling so secure and content that he must have lost count of time.

"No, you haven't," he responded and the corners of his mouth turned up a little. It was a tender smile full of distant melancholy as well as gratification and only a few could claim to had ever seen it on Mahariel's face. Hesitant, Zevran propped himself on an elbow, looking down at Warden's peaceful face. He slowly lowered his head, watching for reaction, as if expecting he would be pushed away. Their lips connected and there was no trace of their brutish love-making left. Fawn's fingers wandered into blonde disheveled hair as he closed his eyes and enjoyed Zevran's sensuous warm lips and pleasure they were offering. The Crow then wrapped them both in the sheets, pleased when the Warden assumed a sleeping position he intimately knew since they had spent countless nights sleeping together like this.

"Why no women, no men, Zevran?" Fawn asked a seemingly casual question after a long silence. "I would expect you of all people to enjoy yourself in your new independent life. Yet I was told you haven't been seeing anyone in Denerim. At least according to our charming host."

"I've had no desire ever since… Well… I'd rather not talk about it." Zevran recoiled from Fawn's arms and sat up in the bed, realizing that even though Warden's face was gentle, the light amusement was obvious.

"I had no idea I'd unman you by leaving you to live as you saw fit, Zevran. I'm sorry for that." There was no mockery in those words, although it was a rather startling insight into Zevran's two months of liberty; two months he had spent in nothing but despair and self-imposed solitude. The proud assassin within him wanted to yell, object, argue, ask an apology, disperse the allegation, but it was no less than the truth, so what was the point really?

"I have many questions, Fawn," he gravely stated and glanced at the Warden over his shoulder and their eyes met. "Will you answer them?"

"I most certainly will, but not tonight." Fawn mildly shook his head and even smiled a little when he glimpsed disappointment on Crow's face. "Tonight we sleep," he held out a hand toward the ever still sitting assassin who took it and shyly brought it to his face before he slipped beneath the covers again to do as he was told to. The sleep eluded him though as his mind kept restlessly musing over the whole day that had started as expected, only to end very much unexpectedly judging by the Warden peacefully sleeping right next to him with his head snuggled down against his chest, one arm loosely encircling his waist and long strands of silver hair wildly scattered all over the pillow.

It was truly the beginning of his life together with the Hero of Fereldan who had decided to put aside his worldly titles and become once again the man he was born to be.


	28. Chapter 28

The Warden & The Crow

Part 2

The morning dawned frigid and drab, but at least it was raining no more. Zevran kept his eyes shut as the echoes of a marvelous dream he couldn't remember slowly dissipated. Reality seeped back into his mind and once it did, the golden eyes shot open and the Crow was suddenly very much awake. The bed next to him was empty. His arms were… empty. Fawn's heavy winter cloak that was hung by a door knob disappeared, as well as Warden's wet clothing and armor Zevran had so diligently laid out by the fire last night to let them dry.

Whirling around the room, naked as he was, his fingers already jammed in his loose hair in despair, Zevran questioned his mental health. There was nothing left of the Warden in that small sad room whatsoever. No traces of his presence, no records of what he'd said and no evidence of what they'd done together other than chaotic memories whirling within Zevran's head. Was his sanity that far gone that he would imagine all that just to soothe his grief-stricken mind? His heart was battering the ribs, his face ashened, his body didn't seem to respond to what he commanded it to do, as all he could do was to breathe in short panicked gulps of air. His clothing and armor remained just as old and just as scattered around the entire room as it was yesterday. He dressed in haste and only the absolutely necessary parts including the breeches and a white shirt that was intriguingly sewn the way that the chest was practically bare. Not bothering with the boots, Zevran bolted out of the room that suddenly seemed like a barless prison to him, jumped down the stairs and only when he crashed into the old bartender he realized he had no idea where he was going and what he was chasing after this time. A fleeting memory? A shadow of his past? A distant mountain? Or a man made of flesh and blood who was with him only a few hours ago, claiming the two of them would remain together?

"Oi now, elf, what's the hurry?" Flynn grumbled and steadied the young hot-head who seemed to be out of his mind and at the end of his strength. Actually, Flynn wondered whether he'd seen the elf in an actual daylight before and whether he'd ever seen him sober for that matter.

"Have you seen a man, well, an elf to be precise, coming here tonight, I mean last night, asking about me, then coming upstairs? You would notice him – he's very noticeable! You wouldn't see him leaving the room, not until this morning, that is. I must find… I need him to… I want…!" The panicked words gushed out of his mouth in one incoherent ramble and suddenly there were two of them doubting Crow's mental health as the old bartender let go of him, cautiously stepped back and crossed his arms on chest. Eyeing him up and down, noticing his shivers, the unsettling insane glow within his eyes and bare feet, he no doubt thought that his tenant had finally snapped. In his opinion, he had it coming from the day one.

"Please, do forgive my companion. Nothing but a little misunderstanding." A serene voice; deep velvet tenor with smooth imperative undertones, entered the conversation before the situation got out of control. The old bartender just raised an eyebrow and went about his business rather than commenting on the hysteric outburst he'd witnessed, leaving the two of them alone to sort it out. The inn was all but deserted at this late morning hour. Zevran remained motionless just where he was standing with his back turned to door and therefore to the man who must have entered sometimes during the scene. Crow's head slowly dropped when he realized how damaged he really was.

"Carry it upstairs. Room 4."

Zevran heard indeed that quiet order even though he didn't know whom it was directed to or what it meant. Several smudged shadows passed by him, but he cared not. It was far more comfortable to remain this inert rather than to straighten up and look into the face of humiliation. Once alone, he could hear the Warden approaching him, but in no way he was willing to turn around and look at him.

"You thought I'd left." It was not a question; merely a statement. It was once again bewildering how aptly the Warden managed to evaluate the situation.

"Yes," Zevran replied, dropping his head even lower.

"You do not trust me." Yet another statement came from behind his back, and just like before Zevran felt obligated to answer even though it was not a question.

"No," he whispered back almost inaudibly this time, as if ashamed for his answer, however honest it was. Actually, Zevran was getting peeved at this point. How could he trust someone who had been nothing but screwing him over, telling him strictly true lies only, and leaving him and coming back when it was convenient?!

As the resolve within him rose, Zevran whirled around to tell the Warden very explicitly what he thought about this crazy situation he had been hurled into, and there he was – standing in front of him, yet out of reach, his face expressionless, his stance relaxed, but Zevran could tell the Warden was hurt at his deepest self by the mistrust and doubt – two feelings he had deserved for his deeds. There was only one answer Fawn possessed to lull the demons plaguing Zevran's mind. He seized the advantage and pushed him hard against the wall with a hand roughly wrapped around his neck, observing from that little distance remaining between them Zevran's face that was just as startled as it was aroused. Their lips met, first with an ethereal kiss, their tongues languidly moving together, but such kiss could go on only for so long before it became aggressive and needy, showing that one night couldn't possibly make up for all those lonely nights they had spent apart.

"Come," Fawn whispered once the kiss broke off and he turned around and headed for their little room without the slightest glance back. "Clean yourself up," he coldly ordered when Zevran trudged inside, closing the door behind his back. Apparently someone had arranged for a new feature in the room while Zevran was gone as there was a low stool with towels folded up on it, and a copper basin with steaming water and a soap waiting to be used. "Join me, when you're done. I beg your forgiveness, but I'm going to start eating without you as I haven't had a decent meal in last nine days." Again that cold calculated undertone vibrated within Warden's voice as he seated himself by the table and started examining all kinds of food Flynn had sent on their table. He didn't look when Zevran hesitantly pulled the shirt over his head and freed himself from the breeches he had donned in haste earlier, but judging by lots of splashing and a hummed Antivan tune coming from the corner, Zevran had started working through the task given to him.

The feast was quite humble, at least in comparison with what sort of meals Fawn was accustomed to, but it was honest and fresh food and frankly at this point Fawn wouldn't turn down a nug on a stick roasted above an open fire somewhere in wilderness if nothing else was available. Luckily, there was, since the table was sagged under several broad plates laid out with thin plates of smoked venison, whole loaf of bread, cold roasted chicken, steaming eggs with sausage, and vegetable that had been pulled out of ground only recently, sliced, and warmed up with plates of bacon over it. Two pitchers of fresh water were prepared to wash the food down and a flagon of decent Orlesian red wine was brought as well to make that notional dot after the feast Flynn could be proud of in this part of town.

"Come. Join me." Fawn looked up from his plate once he realized the sounds coming from the corner had ceased. "We can talk now if you wish," he remarked as he reached for his pitcher, emptied it with long thirsty gulps and snatched yet another chicken drumstick and a chunk of bread. Zevran seated himself on the other chair opposite to Fawn, observing his wolf-like appetite in amusement, but then again, he always did that. It took him a while before he started eating as well. "Here I thought you have many questions to ask. At least you said so. Let's hear them then." Fawn shortly laughed a quiet laughter once he threw the cleanly gnawed chicken bones on the plate and he had yet to hear a word from the Crow.

"I… Well… I think…" was all Zevran could come up with, clearly ill at ease.

"I see," Fawn snidely remarked on the eloquence of Crow's verbal display. "But again, perhaps many questions have been answered already…?" he intently watched the Crow after this half-question and thought about how delicately he could touch the subject of this morning. "So indulge me with an answer to _my_ question, if you will." He comfortably leaned back with his legs stretched and crossed after such satisfying breakfast. "What of the Crows, Zevran?"

It was a quiet question; utterly crucial question, as the consequences of Zevran's second attempt to leave the guild would be grave and could disrupt their future together in many ways.

"I ceased all communication with them the day I saw you back in Kirkwall, wounded. Hawke was to be my last contract." He didn't look at the Warden when he replied as he rather toyed with a piece of bread, placed a piece of smoked meat upon it and decorated the top of it with sweet yellow pepper that must have been imported to Denerim from the South. "They've attempted to re-establish contact several times ever since, but their… messengers… have always met untimely demises under mysterious circumstances, I'm afraid." He drove a wooden toothpick through his piece of work. "And as per your unsaid question whether I _feel_ like a Crow still—" Zevran fell silent and carefully served his hand-made canapé to the Warden. "The answer is no. I consider myself a Crow no longer ever since our conversation on the ship sailing to Fereldan. And I shall repeat it to anyone who would come to inquire about it."

"Once a Crow, always a Crow," Fawn shook his head in disagreement and his face darkened. Realizing that his words had reached deeply into Zevran's soul, he felt obligated to explain. "Zevran, once you are a Crow, you remain one until the very moment of your death. There's no way to get past that. It's not a life you can retire from."

"What do you suggest then?" Zevran asked in growing ire, clearly alarmed by Warden's views on the matter. "Will you hand me over to them if they show up to drag me back? Will you hold my hands behind my back when they decide to kill me because I refused to go?" he asked with growing hysteria, and jabbed the knife he'd been using to cut the chicken into the table. Ah, those Antivans – so fervent, so histrionic.

"Not _if _they show up, but _once_ they show up, Zevran." Fawn once again disagreed as he made perfectly clear that their clash with the Crows was inevitable and merely a matter of time; not fortuity. "And once they do, I shall destroy whoever dares stepping between us." There it was again – an unswerving answer Zevran craved to provoke with his drama. The words were quiet, dangerous, sinister, and only a fool wouldn't believe each and every one of them. Zevran had seen the Warden in action many times and he could only imagine the horrible welcome Fawn would bestow upon those who would attempt to separate them. "I feel like I should clarify something, Zevran." Warden reached for the pewter goblet, filled it with red wine and smelled it before he took a sip.

"Oh, this should be good," Zevran mumbled with a mouth full of venison. "Go ahead."

"I know what I've said on the ship about having your life in my hands. I know what you've said in reply. However pleased by your answer, I won't hold you to any oath or promise, nor will I ever refer to it should you decide to leave me. You are free to go whenever and wherever you desire to. I prefer you wouldn't, but there it is. I thought this should not go unsaid." Fawn was now playing with the canapé, drumming his finger upon the wooden stick, lifting it, only to set it down again.

"Why would you say such a thing?" Zevran asked an almost inaudible question and his eyes kept flickering between the canapé and Fawn's pensive face. "After last night, well, I thought it was clear that… We would…" he fell silent as he kept watching in suspense whether Fawn would eat the canapé he was presented with. Zevran wasn't able to fathom why it was so important to him whether his little offering would be accepted. It simply was. And Fawn seemed to realize it.

"I consider it necessary to point out you are a free man, Zevran. I haven't said I wished you to leave nor will I. However this option is there and you must be aware it's there." At this gentle explanation, Fawn reached for the canapé again and gracefully brought it into his mouth, setting the stick aside as he chewed on it in contemplation.

"Duly noted, can we now stop talking about it?" Zevran didn't make any secrets of how uncomfortable he was with this topic. Their eyes met and the Crow calmed down once his little canapé was gulped down and from the expression on Fawn's face, he was fully aware of the significance of the petty offering he had accepted and the hidden meaning behind it.

"I have one more thing to discuss before we proceed." Fawn's brows drew together as he considered how to put his thoughts into words. Seeing the Warden more or less at a loss of words was unsettling on its own; in fact unsettling so much that Zevran was no longer able to sit and wait. He rose from his seat, masking his restlessness with an intention to refill Warden's empty goblet with wine. Going back and orderly sitting down on the chair again would be the smart thing to do, so throwing the pillows to Warden's feet he did instead, settling down on them. He placed his head in Warden's lap and wrapped an arm loosely around his lean leg. As if ready for anything that may come, he muttered,

"I'm listening."

Idly stroking the golden hair in his lap, Fawn seemed to find the right words. "I know you haven't been with anyone while in Denerim, but—"

"I haven't!" Zevran jerked and quickly confirmed that assumption, looking up into Fawn's face in urgency.

"And I believe you when you say it," the Warden beckoned and gave him a faint smile. "But I'm sure you've been with many ever since our dissent in Amaranthine."

Ouch, a low blow, rendering the Crow mortified. Since clearly the Warden expected an honest answer to his inquiry, Zevran felt obligated to provide it, even though he was not able to do so while looking into his eyes at the same time.

"Yes," he murmured a simple confirmation and buried his head in the lap again. More he would not say anyway.

"I don't care about them, Zevran, but from this moment forth I would not share you with anyone. This is my one and only condition and we may discuss it further if you wish, but you must willingly comply with it afterward if we are to have a future together." A silence followed, even the hand gently drawing circles and lines on Warden's thigh had stopped. "I see my words have upset you," Fawn sighed and toyed with a strand of golden hair again, realizing it had rather therapeutic effect on him.

"I'm just surprised, that's all," Zevran admitted and nuzzled the leg. "You've never required anything like this from me before."

"No, I haven't, but I do now. What do you think about it?"

"Does it work… both ways?" Zevran warily investigated as he was becoming more and more intrigued by the idea of having the Warden only for himself.

"It may, if you wish," was his quiet reply, more or less surprised by the willingness and Crow's keen interest in being dedicated to one man and one man only in every possible way.

"Then I agree," Zevran turned his face back up, eagerly awaiting a nod of agreement that would settle the matter.

"Don't make this decision rashly, Zevran!" was Fawn's sullen reply to such misplaced enthusiasm. "If you give me your word and then break it with someone, I will know it, and I will rip their heart out and I swear I'll leave forever with or without killing you first."

"Sounds like fun! I get to stare at you luridly for the rest of my days. Can't imagine anything better." Zevran's impish smile even broadened as he pulled Fawn's head down to seal the deal with a kiss. He thought that the Warden sometimes worried too much.

"I forgot how young you still are…" Warden shook his head and stoically sipped his wine once they parted. Having no answer to that statement, Zevran wriggled in his pillow seat, poking the idle hand with his head to keep stroking. They sat like this in silence for an hour, both clearly pondering the new form of their relationship among other things. Then the Warden gently nudged him with his knees. "Rise. We have much to do before we leave."

"Much to do?!" Zevran looked puzzled by those words as he jumped up to his feet, fresh and replete and ready for anything. "You don't intend to clean this place up, do you?" he cautiously made sure and looked about the devastated room. Then he gave his companion a bashful grin since they both knew who brought it to its sorry state last night.

"No, I don't intend to clean up," Fawn reassured the Crow as he strolled toward the pile of packages of all sizes and shapes. He had to pay quite a few urchins to help him carry those back to the room from the market. "Strip down," he ordered the elf without looking at him while he started examining the packages as if deciding where he should start.

"Arrr! Pirate Zevran reporting for duty! Prepare to be boarded!" the Crow heartily laughed while tossing his clothing around and sneaking toward the object of his desire who appeared to be lost in thought.

"No, you oaf!" Fawn woke up from his contemplation when someone had spun him around and kissed him deeply. "Do you even think about something else? _Ever_?" he slapped the tanned hands off him, trying hard not to stare at the gorgeous scarcely clothed man in front of him and, well, drool.

"But," Zevran searched for a reason why not to have sex before leaving, but couldn't find one. "I want you." He set his eyes burning with golden fire at his lover after that guileless confession, waiting.

"And you shall have me again, but not now." Fawn ardently replied, briefly brushing his white hand against the dark skin of Crow's face, but Zevran turned away, avoiding the hand. Seeing that his promise was not appreciated in the least, the Warden sighed and dropped down onto the bed with his head in palms.

"Fawn, what is it?" An alarmed question came, and the bed rocked as the other elf sat down as well, pressing himself against his lover. Zevran's sulkiness was gone at once when his fingers intertwined with Warden's, realizing how cold they were all of a sudden. Sheer scorn dripped from every Fawn's word when he tried to explain.

"It's this place. That foul smell creeping around to devour everything in the way. This filthy so-called jewel of Fereldan. This whole accursed city full of humans and dog shit and elves herded behind the walls of Alienage gives me chills ever since—" Fawn fell silent abruptly, shaking his head as if he couldn't bring himself to say the words.

"Ever since the Fort Drakon," Zevran slowly finished the thought for him and remained silent afterward. If anything, he felt like a silly brat. Stupid, stupid Zevran. Of course it was hard for the Warden to return here. Of course they should leave – and the sooner, the better.

Not realizing he was more understood than he had anticipated, Fawn pleaded, "I have come here really just for you. I wouldn't have come back here for anything… lesser." Fawn turned his careworn face toward the Crow, seeking nothing but silent understanding. Zevran blushed at those unexpected words and stood up to demonstrate he was prepared to leave immediately if necessary. To make it obvious, he tucked himself back into his breeches and whirled around to find the boots that looked as if a bunch of mabari hounds had chewed on them. "You haven't asked what that pile of packages is for…" Fawn watched his doing and fidgeted. _Fidgeted_. The Wardens do not fidget. This alone forced Zevran to stop his preparations and focus. Whatever it was, it seemed to be connected to that pile.

"All right, I'll bite," the Crow cautiously folded his arms on bare chest and hurled a suspicious glance at the pile. "What's all that crap for?"

"Open it," a laconic reply came. Fawn suddenly rose from his seat and stalked to the little window, peeking outside with his arms folded behind the back.

"Armor…" Zevran whispered in surprise when he tore the first package open. "You bought… new armor? And from Master Wade no less!" He kept repeating it in disbelief over and over again as he ripped the packages open, finding always a new piece of equipment or underclothing or armor.

Fawn turned around just in time to watch the Crow ostentatiously flinging a new cuirass to the ground. "You… You are just… Rah!" Zevran let out a frustrated cry and headed for the door, only to turn around and march back the moment he reached them. "Only you are able to insult me in so many ways, that every time you do, I think you won't be able to insult me any further in the future, but—" he threw his arms in the air, "—here we go again. Better than the last time, not nearly as good as the next time!" he desperately cackled and only now realized that Fawn's face may have shown many emotions, but none of them was surprise.

"I didn't mean to—"

"Oh yes, you meant all right. Like a gauntlet thrown into my face!" The Crow intended to kick the cuirass lying on the floor, but, well, the unblemished leather polished into dark glow with tiny embedded onyxes looked simply marvelous, so he chose not to, at least for now. What he could do was to leave with his head upright.

"Zevran, wait! Don't…." Fawn just shook his head when he couldn't bring himself to beg not to be left alone. As if he'd planned on all this! Even though he had anticipated a scene from his lover, he didn't count on him to accuse him of plotting an insult. Standing there in the middle of a small ugly room, the mighty Hero of Fereldan suddenly looked frail. His eyes seemed much lighter than usual.

Watching him torn between his pride and his love for the Warden, Zevran earthily cursed in his own tongue, "Braska!" as he strode back, roughly snatching the Warden into his arms. As the Maker Himself was his witness, only that insufferable elf could make him feel so... unstable, so ferocious, as well as gentle at the same time. "What were you thinking?" he asked and glanced at both new and old armor scattered on the floor. "How could you think that I would possibly ever accept such an extraordinary gift? You must have known I'd consider it nothing but mere alms!" Despite his harsh reprimands, he held him in an embrace like a treasure, taking advantage of being an inch taller than his lover.

"I wished you to wear it when we ride out together today." A quiet, yet stubborn reply came and Zevran had to actually chortle a little at it. "You can pay me back later, if you cannot accept it as a gift."

Carefully considering the words, Zevran's eyes unwittingly wandered toward the beautiful armor again. Slowly he started understanding Warden's motifs. He just wanted this day to be… perfect. A perfect start of their new imperfect life together. He was a fool to seek a concealed offense behind it.

"Will you help me?" he sheepishly asked the Warden when he made up his mind. Fawn didn't reply; he just let his hands to drop a little lower to undone the laces on Zevran's breeches, looking him in the eyes while he let his fingers working. He then handed him over the new pants made of buck skin dyed into a very dark shade of silver, warm and firm and very pleasing to touch. Zevran let out a long deep hum when he slipped into them, realizing they were fitting like a second skin. Fawn circled around the Crow, examining the pants, and then he dropped to his one knee to tie the laces that were at each hip. "Fawn, you really don't have to—" the Crow reached down in embarrassment to stop him.

"It's all right," Fawn shortly looked up, the corner of his mouth curling up a little. "I want to," he uttered and kept dealing with the lacings. He pushed Zevran to sit on the bed afterward, remaining in the same position when he reached for the socks and high boots lined with short-haired fur. Zevran watched him meticulously tugging the thick leather thong through iron eyelets until both boots were all laced up. They both stood up and Zevran pulled a plain white linen undertunic over his head, straightening it on his body while Fawn fished out another piece of garment from the pile – a crimson colored tunic made out of wool, furs and pliant leather that was clearly made to survive even cold winter nights outside. Adjusting the little silver buckles, so the garment would comfortably fit the body beneath it, Fawn looked up from his work from time to time, each time catching Zevran's eyes watching him in profound silence. Throwing both breastplate and backplate loosely attached to one another over Crow's head, Fawn made sure not a golden hair would get plucked when he started tightening the straps, jiggling the cuirass afterward to ensure it indeed firmly fitted and did its job of protecting the torso. A belt came around the waist afterwards; showy and sumptuous rather than practical and inconspicuous. Precisely the style as if Zevran had picked it out himself. The gloves and vambraces then had their turn and Fawn took his time while attaching them to Crow's forearms, lacing them up just enough to do their job without restraining the locomotion and diminishing comfort. Fawn then took a few steps back to examine the result and he seemed mesmerized at first by what he saw. Zevran's svelte and finely muscled body was prominent in the armor closely clinging to it, emphasizing the chest broader than most elves possessed, lean waist adorned with the belt and muscular legs covered with new pants that disappear within the boots. He had to laugh his quiet restrained laughter several times as he watched the Crow smelling the leather, admiring subtle ornaments, or fighting an invisible opponent to test the flexibility and whether something was chafing him or didn't feel right. It seemed Master Wade had outdone himself once again. Zevran then automatically reached to the back of his head, hastily braiding his hair to keep it off his face.

"Please, let me." Fawn strolled back to him and pushed the Crow into a chair, giving him such intense gaze that Zevran seriously considered tearing the armor off both of them once again. Feeling the comb within his hair; slow long soothing strokes, he closed his eyes and enjoyed while Fawn's nimble fingers did all the work - braiding two thin strands of golden hair that connected at the back of the head where they were elaborately tied together with a thong. "All done. Let's look at you." Mahariel brought him in front of the mirror and made a few steps back to admire the final result. "You're very…" he searched for the right words, enthralled. "Handsome," he stammered and coughed to hide his excitement.

"Was there ever any doubt?" Zevran retorted with his usual smug self, but then his face melted. "Thank you," he took the Warden into his arms, sinking his face deep into the silver hair and let their scent fill him. "I'm still going to pay you back, but thank you," he let go of him and bowed his head with his right hand crossing the heart. Throwing a warm cloak on top of all Zevran's new clothing and armor; the color of deepest blue, Fawn clasped the tips with a subtle silver broach depicting a flying crow.

"Very funny," Zevran sneered once he realized what he would bear on his chest from now on. He had almost forgotten that his Warden had a very twisted sense of humor and he might be the only one able to fully appreciate it.

"Not as funny as this," Fawn replied and he reached for the last package loosely wrapped up in a piece of crude green fabric. "There I was, browsing the wares in the Wonders of Thedas, searching for some rare books and restocking potions, when I found _this_." He hefted the package and something clanged within. Taunting him, Fawn hid the package behind his back, challenging the Crow to come and get it. The fight was grave indeed as they fought mainly with their tongues and Zevran stood victorious at the end with a prize in his hand, while Fawn was trying to catch his breath again and neaten his apparel.

Zevran impatiently pulled the cloth apart, gasping when he realized he was gaping at his needle twin blades. "I was sure I'd never see these again," he ran his finger along one blade, then doing the same with the other one.

"A scrawny simpleton told me most curious tale about a dark drunk elf who came to their store not three weeks ago, seeking to sell an exquisite set of twin blades in sheathes for a ridiculous amount of coin as he claimed he needed a barrel of ale much more than weapons. A curious tale indeed." Fawn said it casually, but he closely watched the Crow with his one eyebrow arched in concern, because this sort of behavior didn't sound like Zevran at all.

"What can I say…" the Crow coughed in uneasiness and sheathed the blades where they belonged. "I've been having hard time without you." Now his eyes flashed with distant pain after such honest confession and he rather turned away from the Warden. "Don't worry, I'll pay you for these as well," he bitterly uttered and headed for the door, opening them. Fawn just sighed since the Crow was yet again completely missing the point.

"Would it be so unimaginable for you to simply accept them as a gift from the man who cares for you?" he pressed the crack open door shut again, leaning on it. Creators, it was like dealing with a pouty child over and over again. "Answer me!" he started losing the patience and that was never a good sign when the Hero of Fereldan lost it.

"Yes!" the Crow gave a harsh reply and intended to remove the arm that blocked his way out, but he changed his mind once the arm started emanating faint scarlet light.

"Why?"

"Because I have nothing to offer in return!" he all but shouted at the Warden, realizing that his words were nothing more than a childish excuse.

Exasperated, Fawn just snarled, "Silly Crow!" before he slammed his mouth over Zevran's and this time it was not the Warden who was panting and attempting to regain balance when they were done.

"Thank you," Zevran whispered when he gathered himself. "Thank you," he repeated, letting his forehead resting on Fawn's, placing there a long, gentle peck afterward.

"Shall we?" Fawn asked and glanced at the door in sudden uncertainty. Neither of them knew what was awaiting them behind that door. Neither of them seemed to care. All they knew was that whatever was lurking behind it, they would face it together and that alone gave them the strength to open the door and walk through it.

EPILOGUE

For many days and many nights Kirkwall had been licking its wounds after the coronation that would be later known as the Day of Hawke's Fall. The riots and mayhem spread throughout the city like a sickness that couldn't be cured neither by platoons of Templars or squads of Guards. But just as any other sickness has its end and finds its cure, a bright winter day unexpectedly dawned over Kirkwall several weeks after the coronation and the city fell silent. The fires were smothered, those few remaining apostates crept back into Undercity along with other vermin and order was restored once more, even though it was now clear that it was nothing but a brief silence before the storm.

Knight-Lieutenant Cullen was slightly injured during the explosion at the Gallows, but since he would have perished should he attend the coronation as he intended, Cullen accepted his fate with humility of his own and even though he never would have admitted it, deep down he knew he owed Hawke his life. With Elthina dead, Chantry's position was shaken in Kirkwall like never before in its history and subversion spread against it with velocity of a lightning bolt. Anders may have outsmarted the Champion after all, but in the chaos that shrouded the events during the coronation, no one seemed to remember it was him who had ignited the fire that forced the Circles all around Thedas to rise against the tyranny of the Templars and the Templars demanded full support of the Chantry to hunt down apostates, but the Chantry was not willing to give it; not under such circumstances when there was an open war upon the world. Kirkwall nobles demanded the Rite of Annulment to be performed in Kirkwall's Circle, and it was only Cullen's hand and Cullen's hand only that prevented it from happening as he led endless deliberations with Orsino who demanded more freedom for his mages though his radical demands were only pouring oil into already raging fire.

There had been many attempts to raid the Hawke estate, but every each one of them failed so far because the estate was guarded by Aveline's men from the very day of coronation and the new Knight-Commander Cullen quietly supported her efforts. Cullen himself was frequently seen as he wandered alone through the vast dim chambers of the estate, his arms folded behind his back in contemplation and his face grim. Seeing all those luxury carpets from Antiva, famous Nevarran vases, huge tapestries covering the walls, weapons of all origin and manner hung all around him, he could nothing but replay again and again the statements of myriad eye-witnesses as they described the same thing with different words – Hawke boarded a little ship in Kirkwall harbor along with his Kossith warriors and set off through the channel carved into the cliff that allowed ships to leave the harbor and sail the seas. This dark corridor with sheer walls hundreds of feet high into the city's interior was flanked from either side by Kirkwall's Twins - two massive bronze statues. It was at this spot when Hawke's ship was hit, exploded and sank down in front of everyone present; including the Guards Captain, Varric Tethras and Sebastian Vael, the prince and heir to Starkhaven throne. And if Cullen couldn't believe the word of a prince, then he didn't know whom he could trust.

There were many who believed the Champion somehow survived his own death, but openly showing any sympathy for this Kirkwall devil as he was named meant a week in jail and paying fee that most could not afford. And so it was that Hawke's name was uttered only in secrecy and low voices behind closed door of Hightown and in alehouses of Lowtown. Many believed Samael Hawke did more good than harm in the city and many speculations emerged about what exactly had happened.

Aveline Vallen remained a Guards Captain with her husband Donnic relentlessly standing by her side as she and what she represented was needed now more than ever. She faced many difficulties and accusations in her wake as her name was connected only too tightly to the Champion of Kirkwall, but no one could argue with how much she had done for the people of Kirkwall while the loyalty and love she managed to inspire in her Guardsmen became legendary.

With Elthina dead, Sebastian seemed to have lost the direction and the Maker ceased to speak to him. With Hawke gone, he was forced to seek support and army in Orlais and they gave it to him indeed. What they demanded in return remained veiled in secrecy though. He finally marched on the city of Starkhaven and realized only too late that no army was needed as the city opened its gates to him willingly and welcomed him as one would expect a mother to greet her prodigal son.

Varric Tethras seemed to be sick of the endless quarrels between the Templars and mages as he claimed it was nothing but a lot of boring humans and elves in skirts and he got them all mixed up. The dwarf was also the only one who openly believed the Champion was not just alive, but alive and back in Fereldan, but when someone asked him about it, he pretended he had an urgent Merchants' Guild meeting and left, only to be seen at the Hanged Man a few minutes later, sitting alone by the table where the Champion had used to sit. Sometimes it felt as if all his friends and comrades were with him still. He was convinced he had glimpsed Isabela standing by the counter the other day, drinking and fencing off yet another suitor. He expected Fenris to walk through the door with his arms around Hawke and they would make a vociferous entrée like they always had while Anders would follow them like a second shadow with his nose buried in some manifesto. Yesterday in a market he had been chasing a dark-haired young elven maiden, only to realize it wasn't Merrill at all. The life in Kirkwall seemed to have lost all its charms for Varric, but when he found a single hawk feather in a plain envelope delivered to him one day, he knew that the story he had been writing was not at its end after all.

Bodahn disappeared precisely on Hawke's Fall along with his son Sandal, although no one had seen them actually leaving Kirkwall. A few months later there was a rumor that the Circle of Magi in Orlais had gained a rather peculiar asset to their staff – a young dwarven boy who might have been a simpleton, but his abilities to enchant practically anything gained him fame nonetheless.

The life in Kirkwall went on, but Champion's name was burned only too deeply into its history to simply vanish as many had wished. A controversial debate had been led for five months before Cullen managed to carry through an idea to honor the Champion of Kirkwall – a patulous sculptural group depicting him and his victory over the Arishok was erected in Hightown square to remind the Kirkwallers every day what the Champion of Kirkwall had done for them and even though he might be dead, his deeds would live on in the city that had uplifted him from an unknown Blight refugee to its Champion and Viscount. The Viscount's crown was lost ever since the coronation and many believed it would remain buried forever somewhere at the bottom of Kirkwall harbor. New city council had been formed afterward to rule the city with quiet consent of the Knight-Commander Cullen and many believed that the Champion would return to Kirkwall one day with the black jagged crown on his head and rule just as he was meant to. But that is another story.

THE END


End file.
